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FROM   THE   LIBRARY  OF 
REV.    LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,   D.  D 

BEQUEATHED    BY   HIM   TO 

THE   LIBRARY  OF 

PRINCETON   THEOLOGICAL   SEMINARY 


DMsioa 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

Princeton  Theological  Seminary  Library 


http://archive.org/details/passionflowerOOhowe 


V 


^^mc< 


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20  1933 


p\V£ 


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PASSION-FLOWERS 


BOSTON: 
TICKNOR,    REED,    AND    FIELDS. 

M  DCCC  LIV. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  185H,  l>y 

TICKNOR;    REED,    AND    FIELDS, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


SECOND     EDITION 


CONTENTS 


Salutatory 1 

Rome 8 

Pio  Nono 26 

Santa  Susanna 28 

A  Picnic  among  the  Ruins  of  Ostia      .        .        .        .31 

The  City  of  my  Loye 36 

A  Protest  from  Italy 40 

Wherefore 46 

From  Newport  to  Rome 59 

Whit-  Sunday  ln  the  Church 68 

The  Mill-Stream .80 

Behind  the  Veil 8-5 

Correspondence 87 

Mother  Mind 90 

Thoughts 92 

Sybil 98 

The  Heart's  Astronomy  .        .        .        .        .        .        .100 

A  Child's  Excuse 103 

(iii) 


IV  CONTEXTS. 

The  Royal  Guest 105 

My  Last  Daxce 107 

My  Sea- ward  Window 110 

Ax  Apology 112 

Entbehrex 114 

Coquette  et  Fro  id  e 116 

Coquette  et  Texdre 118 

Gretchex  to  Goethe 121 

Staxzas 122 

OEOZ 123 

Philosoph-master  axd  Poet-aster 127 

My  Lecture 131 

Tribute  to  a  Faithful  Servaxt 140 

The  Joy  of  Poesy 146 

Staxzas 149 

The  Dead  Christ 150 

Midxight 153 

The  Fellow  Pilgrim 156 

Brotherhood 158 

The  Death  of  the  Slave  Lewis  .        .        .        .       160 

Ashes  of  Roses 165 

Handsome  Harry 169 

The  Master 172 

Mortal  axd  Immortal 175 

The  Dyixg  Rose 178 

Visions 182 


POEMS. 


SALUTATORY. 


TO    THE    POETS. 

Brother  and  sister  poets  dear ! 

Ye  of  the  high,  impassioned  few, 

A  pilgrim  waits  your  tender  grace,  ' 

A  wand'ring  minstrel  would  sing  with  you. 


I  have  not  sat  at  the  heaven-spread  board, 
Nor  worn  the  fillet  of  glossy  bays, 
I  have  but  hearkened  your  song  without, 
And  gone,  refreshed,  on  weary  ways. 

1  W 


I 

SALUTATORY. 


I  was  born  'neath  a  clouded  star, 

More  in  shadow  than  light  have  grown  ; 

Living  souls  are  not  like  trees 

That  strongest  and  stateliest  shoot  alone. 


Comfort  me  as  a  child  of  Art 
That  Sorrow  from  her  mother  stole, 
And  sent,  to  cross  the  threshold  of  life, 
Orphaned  in  heart,  and  beggared  in  soul. 

I  have  sung  to  lowly  hearts 
Of  their  own  music,  only  deeper  ; 
I  have  flung  through  the  dusty  road 
Shining  seeds  for  the  unknown  reaper. 

I  have  piped  at  cottage  doors 
My  sweetest  measures,  merry  and  sad, 
Cheating  Toil  from  his  grinding  task, 
Setting  the  dancing  rustics  mad. 


Kindly  though  their  greetings  were, 
They  were  far  from  my  race  or  kin  ; 
But  I  passed  the  loftier  porch, 
Fearing  not  to  be  let  in. 


SALUTATORY. 

Better  to  sit  at  humble  hearths, 
"Where  simple  souls  confide  their  all, 
Than  stand  and  knock  at  the  groined  gate. 
To  crave  —  a  hearing  in  the  ball. 


Oil !  ye  winged  ones  —  shall  I  stand 
A  moment  in  your  shining  ranks  ? 
Will  ye  pass  me  the  golden  cup  ? 
Only  tears  can  give  you  thanks. 

Without  gracious  ears  to  hear, 
Languidly  flows  the  tide  of  song  — 
Waters,  unhelped  of  bank  or  brake, 
Slowly,  sluggishly  creep  along. 

We  must  measure  from  mankind, 
Know  in  them  our  fancies  true  ; 
Echo  gives  us  each  high-strained  sharp, 
Teaches  us  tune  the  harp  anew. 

Ere  this  mystery  of  Life 
Solving,  scatter  its  form  to  air, 
Let  me  feel  that  I  have  lived 
In  the  music  of  a  prayer. 


SALUTATORY. 

In  the  joy  of  generous  thought, 
Quickening,  enkindling  soul  from  soul ; 
In  the  rapture  of  deeper  Faith 
Spreading  its  solemn,  sweet  control. 


Brothers  and  sisters  !  kind  indeed  — 
Ye  have  heard  the  untutored  strain  ; 
Through  your  helpful  cherishing, 
I  mav  take  heart  to  simj  again  — 


Sing  and  strike,  at  high  command, 
And  keep  sacred  silence  too  ; 
Not  too  greedy  of  men's  praise, 
When  I  know  I  am  one  of  you. 


(The  stern  Reviewer,  friends,  I  mean,) 
Bring  me  bound  in  the  market-place, 
Then,  like  mournful  Anne  Boleyn, 


I  will  stretch  my  slender  neck, 
Passive,  in  the  public  view ; 
Tell  him  with  a  plaintive  smile, 
That  his  task  is  easy  to  do. 


SALUTATORY. 


TO    MY    MASTER. 

Thou  who  so  dear  a  mediation  wert 
Between  the  heavens  and  my  mortality, 
Give  ear  to  these  faint  murmurs  of  the  heart, 
Which,  upward  tending,  take  their  tone  from  thee. 
Follow  where'er  the  wayward  numbers  run, 
And  if  on  my  deserving,  not  my  need, 
Some  boon  should  wait,  vouchsafe  this  only  meed, 
Modest,  but  glorious  —  say,  '  Thou  hast  well  done.* 

I've  wrought  alone  —  my  pleasure  was  my  task : 

As  I  walk  onward  to  Eternity, 
It  were  a  trivial  thing  to  stand  and  ask 

That  my  faint  footsteps  should  remembered  be  ; 
Of  all  Earth's  crownings,  I  would  never  one 

But  thine  approving  hand  upon  my  head, 

Dear  as  the  sacred  laurels  of  the  dead, 
And  that  high,  measured  praise,  '  Thou  hast  well  done. 


SALUTATORY. 


TO    FKIEXDS   AND    POES. 

Ye  fleeting  blossoms  of  my  life, 
The  promise  of  diviner  fruit, 
Forgive,  if  I  enrich  with  you 
The  cypress  garland  of  my  lute. 

i 

Too  closely  are  ye  linked  with  me, 
Too  much  in  mine  your  being  blends, 
That  I  in  song  should  cast  you  off, 
And  sing  myself,  and  not  my  friends. 


Some  of  you  tread  this  vernal  earth, 
And  some  in  mystic  soul-land  move 
In  these,  I  hold  all  holy  truth, 
In  those,  attain  to  heav'nly  love. 


And  ye  who,  rankling  in  my  path, 
Have  torn  my  feet,  and  pierced  my  side, 
Holding  the  eager  pilgrim  hack 
To  suffer  wounded  love  and  pride  ; 


SALUTATORY. 


Forgive  if  I,  whom  Nature  made 
Vengeful  in  none  of  my  desires, 
Have  in  my  harmless  chaplet  bound 
Your  sharp  and  bitter  forms,  ye  briars  ! 


Forgive  as  I  forgive,  and  own 
As  feels  the  heart,  so  falls  the  lot ; 
My  flowers  of  life  were  loving  friends  ; 
My  thorns  were  those  who  loved  me  not. 


ROME. 


I  knew  a  day  of  glad  surprise  in  Rome, 
Free  to  the  childish  joy  of  wandering, 
Without  a  '  wherefore '  or  '  to  what  good  end  ? ' 
By  querulous  voice  propounded,  or  a  thought 
Of  punctual  Duty,  waiting  at  the  door 
Of  home,  with  weapon  duly  poised  to  slay 
Delight,  ere  it  across  the  threshold  bound. 
I  strayed,  amassing  wild  flowers,  ivy  leaves, 
Relics,  and  crusted  marbles,  gathering  too 
Thoughts  of  unending  Beauty  from  the  fields, 
The  hills,  the  skies,  the  ancient  heathen  shrines 
Transfigured  in  the  light  of  Christian  day. 
Coaxed  by  soft  airs,  by  gentlest  odors  flattered, 
Conquered  at  last  by  the  all-conquering  sun, 
My  heart  its  sadly  cherished  silence  brake, 
And  its  long  sealed  tides  flowed  forth  in  song, 
While  bounding  feet  in  gladdest  rhythm  moved. 
For  never  do  I  walk  abroad  so  well 
Enwrapped  from  wintry  blast,  or  from  fierce  heat 


ROME. 

Of  summer  shaded,  as  when  I  may  move 

To  the  free  cadence  of  mine  own  wild  singing. 

Nature  on  that  fair  day  bestowed  a  grace 

More  than  maternal.     If,  at  its  high  noon 

Young  angels,  from  their  heavenly  school  dismissed, 

Had  made  their  play -ground  on  that  Roman  earth, 

Methmks,  they  would  have  sorrowed  to  return, 

Mingling  unwonted  tears  with  dews  of  eve. 

But  the  Day  waned,  and  soft  as  love  in  death 

Bequeathed  her  admonition,  warning  me 

Back  to  the  shelter  of  my  Eoman  home, 

"Where  with  my  children,  at  the  open  window, 

In  the  soft  purple  scarf  of  twilight  folded, 

I  sate,  and  through  the  gathering  dimness  saw 

Mystical  shapes,  that  deepened  into  joy. 

And  thus  I  mused :  there  is  a  feast  to-night 
At  such  a  palace,  spread  for  high-born  dames, 
Princes,  and  dignitaries  of  the  church. 
There  will  be  light  and  music,  fit  for  those 
Who  make  the  music  and  the  light  of  life  — 
The  glancing  wine-cup,  and  the  stately  dance  — 
All  glory  of  rich  tissues,  wondrous  webs, 
And  those  white  shoulders  English  women  show. 
There,  ere  so  far  we  pass,  the  courtly  whist 
At  which  the  humblest  Cardinal  may  sit, 
And  illustrate  his  Christian  poverty. 


10  ROME. 

Mirrors  and  diamonds  flash  the  brilliance  back 
That  emulates  the  clearer  hue  of  day ; 
And  Night  is  only  in  Italian  eyes, 
That  take  in  light  as  the  stars  give  it  out, 
Till  they  grow  introspective,  and  reveal 
Slumbering  within,  volcanic  depths  of  nature, 
How  still  when  still,  how  passionate  when  roused. 
Such  will  the  feast  be,  (Oh !  bethink  you,  friends !) 
And  I  am  bidden  thither  ! 

Gold  and  gems 
I  cannot  show  ;    if  even  my  hair  and  eyes 
(Now  fading  in  the  grasp  of  Time)  had  well 
Deserved  the  ancient  praise  that  named  them  so  ; 
But  in  serenity  of  white  attire 
Folded  transparent,  I  can  fitly  go, 
Wearing  my  native  courage  on  my  bosom 
That  will  not  dim  for  Prelate  nor  for  Prince. 
And  to  that  tainted  atmosphere  of  courts 
Where  new  corruption  ever  crowds,  albeit 
All  words  and  ways  are  so  embalmed  by  use 
That  men  are  born  half  mummied,  I  shall  bring 
Rosy,  the  woodland  breath  of  Liberty 
From  my  far  home,  where  men  live  as  they  list, 
And  only  trees  are  victims. 

I  pursued 
Further,  in  thought,  my  new-commenced  career. 
The  winter,  like  a  college  boy's  vacation, 


ROME.  11 

Seemed  endless  to  anticipate,  and  lay 

Stretched  in  a  boundless  glittering  before  me, 

Unfathomable  in  its  free  delight. 

Or  if  horizon-bounded  like  the  sea, 

I  saw  new  seas  beyond  —  the  sweeping  line 

Limits  the  known,  but  not  the  possible. 

But  what  sad  sight  is  this  ?     I  looked  across 
The  street,  up  towards  the  cresting  of  the  hill, 
And  there,  before  a  humble  door,  beheld 
Two  men  arrive,  that  bore  a  scanty  coffin 
Of  frailest  wood  and  meanest  fashioning. 
They  entered  in  the  shadow  Death  had  left, 
And  soon  emerged  with  heavier  steps,  as  bearing 
One  who  should  bear  the  weight  of  life  no  more, 
Abandoned  to  his  ghastly  solitude, 
As  is  the  Roman  custom.     Only  here 
Wealth  stood  not  in  the  room  of  tenderness, 
Granting  its  escort  of  funereal  pomp 
On  the  brief  journey  to  oblivion. 
Here  was  no  gorgeous  pall,  no  garland  pale ; 
Here  thronged  no  Capuchins,  with  livid  flare 
Of  torches,  (which,  however  held,  will  drop 
Wax  on  the  paper  held  by  thievish  boys.) 
Nor  mumming  penitents,  that  frighten  babes, 
Nor  priest  to  fellow-priest  responding  deep. 
Only  a  dingy  Acolite,  with  dull 


12 


ROME. 


And  leaden  brow,  walked  sturdily  along 

After  the  wooden  cross.     No  solemn  dirge 

Startled  the  heart  with  words  of  hope  and  judgment, 

To  wail  of  wounded  Nature  set  —  scarce  might 

I  catch  the  ominous  mumbling  of  a  prayer, 

As  the  sad  pilgrim  hurried  to  his  shrine 

Adown  the  sloping  street. 

But  from  that  house 
(I  never  learned  who  lived  and  died  therein) 
Or  ere  I  knew,  the  lengthening  shadow  fell 
Upon  the  dial  of  my  life,  and  there 
Marked  the  swift  wearing  of  its  day.     As  sure 
As  chimes  of  Heaven  ring  out  the  hour  of  man, 
So  surely,  then,  I  heard  that  I  must  die. 
And  as  the  mystic  whisper  crept  to  me, 
Methought  the  flowers  about  my  room  turned  faint, 
And  the  light  texture  of  my  festal  robe, 
That  seemed  to  dream  of  floating  in  the  dance, 
Grew  dank  and  heavy,  as  the  linen  shroud 
That  binds  dead  hearts,  and  with  enduring  fibre 
Outlasts  the  wasting  of  their  nobleness, 
While  I,  careering  onward,  high  in  hope 
AVas  held  to  pause  and  tremble.     I  have  been 
In  dangers  of  the  sea  and  land,  unscared  ; 
And  from  the  narrow  gates  of  childbed  oft 
Have  issued,  bearing  high  my  perilous  prize 
(The  germ  of  angel-hood,  from  chaos  rescued.) 


ROME.  IS 

With  steadfast  hope  and  courage ;  but  this  once 

My  heart  so  failed  me,  I  was  fain  to  turn 

For  comfort  to  the  Nurse,  and  question  thus  : 

'  Must  I  leave  all  my  treasures,  all  my  loves, 

And,  like  yon  wretched  corpse,  be  coldly  laid 

Beyond  sweet  Nature's  daily  miracle  ?  ' 

She,  with  true  Quickly  cheeriness  replied  : 

1  There  is  no  need  to  think  about  it  now, 

*  So  do  not  fret  you,  Madam  '  —  but  I  sat 

Till  twilight  darkened  into  night,  and  till 

The  gracious  children  dropped  in  sleep,  and  heard 

Ever  those  threatening  words,  '  Thou  too  shalt  die.' 

A  day  of  fuller  joy  arose  for  me 

When  the  young  Spring-tide  came,  and  dark-eyed  boys 

Bound  violets  and  anemones  to  sell. 

The  later  light  gave  scope  to  long  delight, 

And  I  might  stray,  unhaunted  by  the  fear 

Of  fever,  or  the  chill  of  evening  air, 

While  happiest  companionship  enriched 

The  ways  whose  very  dust  was  gold  before. 

Then  the  enchantment  of  an  orange  grove 

First  overcame  me,  entering  thy  lone  wralks 

Cloistered  in  twilight,  Villa  Massimo  ! 

Where  the  stern  cypresses  stand  up  to  guard 

A  thousand  memories  of  blessedness. 

There  seemed  a  worship  in  the  concentrate 


14  ROME. 

Deep-breathing  sweetness  of  those  virgin  flowers, 

Fervid  as  worship  is  in  passionate  souls 

That  have  not  found  their  vent  in  earthly  life, 

And  soar  too  wild  untaught,  and  sink  unaided. 

They  filled  the  air  with  incense  gathered  up 

For  the  pale  vesper  of  the  evening  star. 

Nor  failed  the  rite  of  meet  antiphony  — 

I  felt  the  silence  holy,  till  a  note 

Fell,  as  a  sound  of  ravishment  from  heaven  — 

Fell,  as  a  star  falls,  trailing  sound  for  light ; 

And,  ere  its  thread  of  melody  was  broken, 

From  the  serene  sprang  other  sounds,  its  fellows, 

That  fluttered  back  celestial  welcoming. 

Astonished,  penetrate,  too  past  myself 

To  know  I  sinned  in  speaking,  where  a  breath 

Less  exquisite  was  sacrilege,  my  lips 

Gave  passage  to  one  cry  :  God  !  what  is  that  ? 

(Oh  !   not  to  know  what  has  no  peer  en  earth  !) 

And  one,  not  distant,  stooped  to  me  and  said : 

'  If  ever  thou  recall  thy  friend  afar, 

Let  him  but  be  commemorate  with  this  hour, 

The  first  in  which  thou  heard'st  our  Nightingale.' 

Nor  only  to  these  holy  solitudes 
My  willing  feet  made  duteous  pilgrimage : 
The  growing  warmth  unlocked  for  me  the  gates 
Whence  Rome  once  issued  to  subdue  the  world, 


ROME.  15 

And,  following  in  her  footsteps,  I  might  see 

Where  erst  she  strode  forth  towards  the  unknown  waste, 

Her  splendor  felt  itself  empowered  to  fill. 

How  widely  overflowed  her  noble  soul, 

Too  great  and  generous  to  contain  itself, 

Gathering  glory  from  the  East,  and  then 

(With  kindred  instinct  of  all  luminous  things) 

Craving  an  outlet  in  the  Northern  night, 

As  if  its  depth  alone  could  give  her  scope. 

But  the  dim  North  had  other  laws  than  hers, 

And  took  not  from  her  will  its  destiny ; 

Its  darkness  swallowed  up  the  light  she  gave 

And  seemed  to  quench  it.     But,  as  none  can  tell 

Among  the  sunbeams  which  unconscious  one 

Comes  weaponed  with  celestial  will,  to  strike 

The  stroke  of  Freedom  on  the  fettered  floods, 

Giving  the  spring  his  watchword  —  even  so 

Rome  knew  not  she  had  spoke  the  word  of  Fate 

That  should,  from  out  its  sluggishness,  compel 

The  frost-bound  vastness  of  barbaric  life, 

Till,  with  an  ominous  sound,  the  torrent  rose 

And  rushed  upon  her  with  terrific  brow, 

Sweeping  her  back,  through  all  her  haughty  ways, 

To  her  own  gates,  a  piteous  fugitive  — 

A  moment  chafing  at  its  limits  there 

To  enter  in,  resistless,  and  o'erwhelm, 

With  heavy  tides  of  death,  her  struggling  breast 


16  ROME. 

Beguile  me  not  to  flights  like  this,  thou  Past 
That,  forced  to  abdicate  the  rod  of  rule, 
Stretchest  the  wand  of  favor  to  our  love, 
And  teraptest  souls  from  thy  magnificence. 
Here,  on  the  ruins  of  the  Ancient  world, 
Thou  sittest,  like  a  harlot,  to  entrap 
The  manifold  human  heart  with  various  gifts. 
The  poet,  tender  fool,  must  pause  to  wave 
Aside  thy  shadowy  veil,  and  gaze  into 
Thy  melancholy  eyes,  that  rivet  him, 
And  yield  his  reason  to  thy  wildering  rhyme  : 
He  sinks  beside  thee,  looking,  listening,  longing, 
And  thou  hast  stolen  the  darling  of  the  Age 
That  to  his  mother's  breast  returns  no  more. 

The  despot,  that  engirds  with  bristling  thorns 
Broad  meadow  lands  of  gracious  human  growth, 
That  they  may  yield  their  golden  wealth  at  will 
To  wither  in  his  prison  granary  — 
Harvesting  ruthlessly  with  headsman's  axe, 
And  sword  unknightly,  whose  death-angels  pause 
And  with  slow  fingers  bind  the  immortal  sheaves, — 
He,  hurrying  in  his  greed  of  power  and  wealth, 
Sees  in  thine  hand  unrighteous  title-deeds, 
And  stops  to  bargain.     Soon  the  compact 's  signed, 
Empty  of  justice,  not  to  sense  aspiring, 
But  with  a  formula  defying  Heaven 


ROME.  17 

That  smiles  down  hope  and  promise,  and  the  law 
That  metes  the  liberal  sunshine  equally. 
Thou  giv'st  him  right  to  wrong  his  fellows  much, 
Himself  more,  and  God's  image  most  of  all. 
Thou  hast  him,  purchased  at  his  own  vile  price, 
And  those  who  weep,  waste  not  their  tears  on  him* 

Or  yonder  monkling,  in  unmanly  garb, 
With  sturdy  limbs  fed  fat  in  idleness, 
Whose  hands  scorn  labor,  as  his  brain  hates  thought, 
These  stretched  for  alms,  that  busy  with  deceit, 
Who  trails  from  door  to  door  his  beggary, 
Devoutest  praying,  where  the  housewife  's  fair. 
He  is  an  image  of  thy  modelling, 
Spawn  of  a  ruder  age,  as  one  might  say, 
Some  generations  nearer  brutes  than  we. 
Shall  he  thrive  on,  upheld  of  thee,  and  live 
A  life  that  were  a  sanctimonious  lie, 
Had  it  but  truth  enough  to  be  a  lie  ? 
Shall  he  still  cheat  the  poor  with  demon  fables, 
And  glittering  trash,  that  holds  the  place  of  God  ? 
Shall  God  himself,  known  through  such  medium, 
Be  held  in  horror  of  the  human  heart, 
Whose  inborn  yearning  for  the  love  divine 
Congeals,  before  the  vengeful  portraiture, 
To  terror,  and  estrangement  wide  as  life  ? 
2 


18  ROME. 

Oh  then,  roll  further  back  thy  chariot  wheels, 

Even  to  the  Ghetto  of  the  hated  Jew ; 

In  his  poor  synagogue's  simplicity 

Faith  enters  not  in  Fancy's  masquerade 

Accoutred  for  religion's  revelry. 

His  Rabbi  nothing  adds  or  takes  away, 

Nothing  assumes  of  mystic  right  or  power, 

But  gives  the  ancient  venerable  word 

With  cautious  lips  and  emphasis  devout, 

(Intent  on  reading  as  his  fathers  read.) 

As  if  believing  it,  not  he,  should  teach. 

He  has  the  oracles  that  Jesus  loved, 

Though  suffering  still  Tradition's  jealous  hand 

To  bind  too  closely  o'er  the  face  of  Truth 

Her  veil  of  Oriental  tracery, 

Which  that  serene  One  smilingly  looks  through, 

Sure  of  her  own  and  God's  eternity. 

From  Sinai's  height  great  Moses  gives  him  laws  ; 

He  hears,  as  we,  vibrating  endlessly 

The  golden  harp-strings  of  the  poet-king, 

While  wondrous,  widely  gifted  Solomon 

Teaches  his  quaint  philosophy  of  life, 

And  pictures  passion  holier  than  prayer. 

Still  in  his  prophets  reading  history, 

He  waits  the  Christ  whom  Christians  show  him  not, 

Waiting  with  infinite  loss,  yet  in  one  thing, 

One  only,  happier  than  they  —  his  faith 


HOME.  19 

Enfolds  intact  in  its  integrity, 
One  treasure,  which  lies  brokenly  in  theirs, 
The  deepest  lesson  of  his  Eastern  skies, 
Th'  inviolable  unity  of  God. 

Still  to  the  spirit  of  the  Past  I  speak 
As  I  discerned  it  there,  in  fateful  league 
With  wanton  weakness,  selfishness  and  sin. 
1  No  good  survives  the  fitness  of  its  time, 
The  semblance  of  the  most  transcendent  form 
That  Friendship  ever  mourned  in  burial, 
Should  it  revisit  us  with  church-yard  damps 
And  deathly  odors  scattering  from  its  hair, 
Were  but  a  thing  of  ghastliness  and  dread 
Fit  for  exorcisement.     Thou  hadst  thy  day, 
And  in  it  thy  degree  of  grace  and  glory ; 
But  now,  rebellious  to  thy  doom  of  change, 
Thou  throwest  grimly  on  thy  catafalque, 
While  Rome,  that  were  as  fragrant  as  God's  Eden, 
Could  Nature  only  have  her  freshening  way, 
Must  still  exhale  thee,  shuddering,  to  the  world, 
Condemned  to  propagate  the  germ  of  death 
Which  thy  decay  holds  festering  in  her  heart. 

1  Thou  vampire  Beauty,  own  that  thou  art  dead, 
Nor  bind  thy  hollow  brows  with  flowers  of  youth 


ZU  ROME. 

That  wither  as  they  touch  thee.     Yield  to  us 
The  wealth  thy  spectral  fingers  cannot  hold ; 
Bless  us,  and  so  depart,  to  lie  in  state, 
Embalmed  thy  lifeless  body,  and  thy  shade 
So  clamorous  now  for  bloody  holocausts 
Hallowed  to  peace,  by  pious  festivals.* 

But  from  these  reasonings,  that  far  outstrip 

The  knowledge  and  the  wisdom  of  a  child, 

Let  me  descend  to  chronicle  my  steps 

In  that  enchanted  region  —  steps  that  take 

A  moment's  grandeur  from  the  ground  they  trod, 

Though  else  pursuing  with  uncertain  stride 

Ways  of  obscure  and  mean  significance. 

I  saw  the  outposts,  where  Rome's  wider  growth 

Invited  wider  ruin,  crumbled  now, 

Till  Ruin's  self  needs  History's  blazonment 

To  be  remarked,  so  closely  does  she  hug 

The  charitable  weeds  that  Time's  remorse 

Flings  back,  to  hide  what  he  makes  devastate. 

I  saw  Albano,  Ostia,  Tivoli, 

The  Sybil  of  the  temple,  spreading  still 

Her  silent,  awful  oracle  before 

The  crowned  Iris  of  the  waterfall, 

Who,  from  her  crystal  columns  opposite, 

Smiles  promise  back  for  mournful  'monishing, 


ROME.  21 

And  when  she  flies,  flies  heavenward,  nor  leaves 
More  earthy  record  than  the  glittering  tears, 
In  which  the  gladness  of  her  soul  dissolves, 
And,  thrilling  through  th'  unconscious  element, 
The  deep  pulsation  of  a  deathless  heart. 

Other,  at  times,  that  downward  torrent  seemed 
A  daring  Sappho  leaps  she  from  the  rock, 
Maddened  of  faithless  sunshine,  fleeing  it. 
In  the  abyss  is  peace,  and  she  shall  sleep 
Treasured  in  darkness,  garnered  up  in  gloom. 
But,  sharing  the  impulsive  ecstasy, 
Love  leaps  with  her  —  his  slender  arms  of  steel 
Enlacing  what  his  rainbow  wings  uphold. 
Now,  vain  her  furious  flight,  her  struggle  vain, 
The  sunshine  overtakes  her  desperate  course  ; 
Her  madness  is  unhealed,  she  cannot  rest, 
For  Love,  in  sunshine,  follows  every  where. 

Forgive  imperfect  types,  that  strive  to  show 
How  the  fixed  Sybil  sits  there  and  decays, 
While  leaping,  loving  human  life  flows  on, 
And,  plunging  down  to  Chaos,  is  not  lost. 

I  saw  l'Ariccia,  where  the  artist's  soul 
Revels  in  light  and  color  magical, 


22  HOME. 

Nor  feels  the  dearth  of  thought,  where  nought  transpires, 

Save  steady  growth  of  men  and  plants'  alike. 

Studies  of  leaves  and  grasses,  fervid  tints, 

And  purple  mountain  shadows,  wile  for  him 

Too  soon  the  silent,  sultry  summer  day, 

Gorgeous  in  all  its  changes  ;  if  he  wish 

A  tenant  for  his  painted  Paradise 

He  summons  up,  to  fill  the  golden  void, 

Such  stately  forms  and  shadowings  of  life 

As  with  the  look  and  gesture  startle  us, 

Seen  in  the  coldness  of  our  sombre  walls, 

And  make  us  tremble  strangely,  as  a  veil 

"Were  for  a  moment  merely  lifted  there, 

And  all  the  burning  beauty  of  the  South 

Were  near  us,  like  Eternity,  unguessed. 

And  often,  when  I've  seen  the  twilight  drape 

Her  folds  of  sadness  o'er  the  wide  domain 

Of  the  Campagna,  desolate  with  tombs, 

(Itself  a  monumental  wilderness,) 

I've  pondered  thus  :  '  Perhaps  at  midnight  here 

Wakes  the  quiescent  city  of  our  day, 

A  Juliet,  drunken  with  her  draught  of  woe, 

And  wildly  calls  on  Love's  deliverance 

Writhing  in  her  untimely  cerements, 

And  stiffens  back  to  silence  when  she  hears : 

1  Love  has  no  help,  save  that  which  waits  on  Death.' 


ROME.  23 

Oh  no  !  more  piteous  still,  a  mazed  child, 

Bereft  in  parentage  and  destiny, 

She  wanders,  stopping  at  these  stones,  to  trace 

Through  wreck  and  rust  of  ages,  signs  that  prove 

Her  filiation  to  the  mighty  sires 

Whose  grim  ghosts  scare  her  slumbers,  pointing  hither. 

She  feels  the  kingly  impulse  of  her  race, 

(For  next  to  soul  is  sense  of  generous  blood,) 

But,  too  unskilled  to  construe  of  herself, 

Can  only  crouch  when  strangers  call  her,  Changeling, 

And  on  the  weak,  unwilling  hand  enforce 

Their  gift  of  shame,  a  Bondmaid's  heritage. 

These  days  wore  on  more  rapidly  than  such 

As  Winter  loads  with  leaden  sluggishness, 

Abridged  of  light,  but  lengthened  out  with  care  ; 

And,  while  I  dreamed  that  they  should  never  end, 

They  were  already  ended  in  my  view. 

Then,  as  perforce,  I  gathered  up  all  strength 

For  the  uprooting  of  my  vine  of  life, 

So  clinging,  creeping,  craving  from  men's  hands 

A  gracious  culture,  loving  so  to  grow 

And  bear  the  fruit  God  gave  it  right  to  bear 

As  genial  tribute  to  Love's  genial  care ; 

I  felt  the  sudden,  earnest  wish  for  death 

Shoot  like  a  subtle  poison  through  my  veins. 


24  ROME. 

Oh  now  !  I  cried ;  in  these  full  golden  hours, 

Let  me  set  sail,  and  bend  my  course  for  heaven. 

Oh  God  !  I  am  too  happy  not  to  be 

Admitted  there  —  I  can  but  end  in  thee  ; 

Not  elsewhere  tends  this  tide  of  blessedness. 

But,  if  I  must  await  the  tedious  ebb 

And  day's  decline,  I  shall  but  be  a  wreck 

That  whitens,  stranded  on  the  shore,  and  mocks 

The  pilot's  skill,  with  bare  dismantled  ribs, 

While  shattered  mast  and  shredded  banner  point 

To  the  rich  freight  surrendered  to  the  deep. 

As  I  prayed  thus,  I  wrestled  with  myself 

And  wrenched  my  hands,  by  loving  friends  held  back 

Till  they  were  free,  and  stretched  on  high  to  God 

Who  took  them. 

As  by  an  electric  chain, 
The  mystical  conjunction  showed  to  me 
The  twilight  street,  of  only  six  months  gone, 
The  lonely  coffin,  the  ungracious  priest, 
And  the  worn  pilgrim,  carried  to  his  rest ; 
And  the  same  voice,  which,  as  a  silver  bell 
Chimed  out  the  numbers  of  men's  fate  in  heaven, 
Uttered  again  what  then  a  menace  seemed, 
But  what  was  now  a  promise  — '  Thou  shalt  die/ 

Have  patience  with  me,  on  the  seaward  way 
I  linger,  for  one  gesture  of  farewell. 


ROME.  2o 

The  bridge  is  crossed  that  led,  oh  path  of  peace ! 

To  holy  vespers  in  the  twilight  aisle. 

The  gate  is  closed  —  the  air  without  is  drear. 

Look  back  !  the  dome  !  gorgeous  in  sunset  still  — 

I  see  it  —  soul  is  concentrate  in  sight  — 

The  dome  is  gone  —  gone  seems  the  heaven  with  it. 

Night  hides  my  sorrow  from  me.     Oh,  my  Rome, 

As  I  have  loved  thee,  rest  God's  love  with  thee ! 


26 


PIO  NONO. 


Thou  should'st  have  had  more  faith !  thy  hand  did  shed 
The  seed  of  Freedom  in  the  field  of  God, 
But  the  last  peril  drove  thee  from  thy  bounds, 
And  stranger  feet  the  unripe  harvest,  trod. 


Thou  should'st  have  had  more  faith !   thy  crown  was 

hung, 
High-pitched,  upon  a  sharp  and  thorny  tree  ; 
We  saw  thee  wrestle  bravely  with  the  boughs, 
But  the  last  buffet  did  dishearten  thee. 


Thou  should'st  have  had  more  faith !  the  voice  of  Christ 
Called  thee  to  meet  him,  walking  on  the  wave  ; 
Thou  should'st  have  trod  the  waters  as  a  path, 
Such  power  divine  thy  holy  mission  gave. 


PIO    KONO.  27 

Shoreward  thy  recreant  footsteps  turn,  and  sink ; 
In  vain  the  heavenly  voice,  the  outstretched  arm, 
Thou  heed'st  not,  though  a  God  doth  beckon  thee, 
Binding  the  billows  with  a  golden  charm. 


Where  Glory  should  have  crowned  thee,  failure  whelms, 
Truth  judges  thee,  that  should  have  made  thee  great ; 
Thine  is  the  doom  of  souls  that  cannot  bring 
Their  highest  courage  to  their  highest  fate. 


28 


SANTA   SUSANNA. 


A  silent  longing  drew  me  towards  the  church  — 
Not  in  the  hour  when  votaries  throng  its  aisles, 
"When  tinkling  mass-bells  teach  us  kneeling-time, 
And  prayers  that  boast  despair  are  breathed  with  smiles. 


Not  while  the  gilded  steps  of  Fashion  fall 
And  her  full  train  sweeps  by  in  crimson  state, 
But  when  the  peasant-mother,  with  her  child, 
Presses  her  sun-stained  brow  against  the  grate. 


Or  oftener  yet,  no  worshipper  was  there. 
Thus,  ere  the  chant  of  evening  should  begin, 
I  left  the  vesper  of  the  world  without, 
And  with  me  went  the  gentle  twilight  in. 


SANTA    SUSANNA.  29 

Iii  lustral  water  I  imbued  my  hands, 
By  some  unholy  contact  chance-defiled ; 
Washed  from  my  brow  the  trace  of  evil  thought ; 
From  lips,  what  they  amiss  had  said  or  smiled. 


I  knelt  to  pray,  then,  flinging  far  away 
Life's  garden  weeds,  that  throng  our  footsteps  free, 
Choking  the  seed  by  angels  strewn,  to  bear 
The  flower  of  Hope  for  Joy  that  is  to  be. 


This  was  my  shrift,  a  breathing  after  God, 
A  shuddering,  rapid  glance  adown  the  past, 
Turned  heavenward  ere  its  spectral  forms  could  rise, 
And,  with  pale  chiding,  set  my  soul  aghast ; 


A  sacrifice  of  expiation  sought 

For  every  wilful  error  of  my  life, 

A  plea  like  this  :   i  Bethink  thee,  by  thy  will 

Th'  immortal  breath  took  this  poor  flesh  to  wife. 


1  Were  they  for  suffering  and  for  evil  wed, 
High  priest  of  Nature,  bear  with  me  the  blame! 
But  if  for  purposes  of  love  and  good, 
Help  !  raise  me  from  this  bed  of  sloth  and  shame  ! ' 


30  SANTA    SUSANNA. 

Then,  silence  —  then  the  touch  of  angels'  wings 
Winnowed  away  that  bitter  grief  and  doubt ; 
And  then  I  left  my  twilight  thoughts  within, 
And  with  me  bore  Faith's  earnest  twilight  out. 


31 


A  PICNIC  AMONG   THE   RUINS    OF  OSTIA. 


Sat  they,  a  famous  seaport  town  ? 
One  look  abroad  I  bid  thee  east, 
Then  tell  me  if  thou  canst  descry 
A  dwelling  here,  or  there  a  mast. 


Of  all  its  old  magnificence 
Stands  one  poor  skeleton  of  brick  ; 
With  grass  are  sown  the  hidden  streets, 
The  palace  ploughed  in  furrows  thick. 


And  this  the  temple  of  a  God, 

The  body  of  a  mighty  thought ! 

Here  vowed  the  heart,  elate  with  hope, 

When  priests  the  struggling  victim  brought 


32  A    riCNIC    AMONG    THE    RUINS    OF    OSTIA. 

Hearts  like  these  hearts  of  ours,  that  drink 

Existence  as  an  endless  cup, 

And  smile  to  hear  of  an  abyss 

Where  life  and  strength  are  swallowed  up. 


These  men  our  brothers  were,  but  built 
Of  sturdier  frame  and  mind  than  we ; 
Tamed  by  their  will,  th'  unruly  flood 
Led  their  proud  galleys  to  the  sea. 


Walk  further,  let  my  guidance  show 
One  crumbling  tower  of  Trajan's  port : 
Strange  that  Christ's  vicar,  God-inspired, 
Has  never  had  as  wise  a  thought. 


But  we,  at  Vecchia's  hostel  left, 
Drag  on  to  Rome  our  bags  and  baggage, 
While  the  Dogana,  cringing  low, 
Wonders  that  Englishmen  are  savage ! 


Within  the  ruined  temple's  shade 
Spread  the  white  cloth,  for  we  incline 
To  revel  in  the  glorious  past, 
But  in  the  present  tense  to  dine. 


A    PICNIC    AMONG    THE    RUINS    OF    OSTIA. 

Flirt  on,  young  lady,  cloze,  old  lord, 
While  I  my  slender  museling  nurse 
With  fragments  of  Horatian  odes, 
Or  with  the  grand  old  Goethe's  verse. 


Fall  too,  my  friends,  in  Bacchus'  name, 
And  make  me,  if  you  will,  his  priest  — 
That  was  a  proper  sort  of  God 
Who  thought  not  scorn  to  bless  a  feast : 


For  his  divinity,  of  old 

Hearing  us  call,  had  hastened  hither, 

And  sat,  till  votary  and  god 

Heeled  homeward,  drunkenly,  together. 


Pour  the  libation  !  see,  how  lights 
The  Capri,  in  this  cup  of  mine  ! 
Drink  to  those  ancient  heathen  fools 
Who  mixed  sea- water  with  their  wine- 


And  in  that  pledge  forget  with  me 
The  sorrow  of  the  wanderer's  star, 
The  sigh  for  that  we  might  have  been, 
The  lonely  grief  at  that  we  are. 


34  A    TICXIC    AMONG    THE    RUINS    OF    OSTIA. 

What  boots  it,  brothers  ?  had  we  lived 
In  utmost  valor,  utmost  bliss, 
Tamed  mighty  nations,  built  great  towns, 
Time  would  have  brought  our  works  to  this. 


Or  had  some  graceful  fragment  cast 
Its  shadow  to  a  distant  age, 
Barbarians  whom  we  never  knew 
Had  squabbled  for  our  heritage. 


See,  the  fierce  charioteer  of  Day 
Drives  to  the  wave  his  smoking  steeds  ; 
The  world  may  breathe,  the  tyrant  drops 
The  lash,  the  slave  no  longer  bleeds. 


And  soft  the  pious  Evening  steals, 
To  watch  her  fiery  father's  rest ; 
A  whispered  Ave  seems  her  voice, 
And  one  pure  gem  hangs  on  her  breast. 


As  yonder  sun,  an  exiled  king, 
Each  day  his  slumbering  world  retakes, 
And  from  the  dark  domain  of  Night, 
As  sure  as  God,  his  conquest  makes ; 


A    TICNIC    AMONG    THE    RUINS    OF    OSTIA.  oO 

So  the  immortal  principle, 

That  fills  Creation  with  its  breath, 

Daily  from  rudest  chaos  wrings 

Souls  which,  like  ours,  can  laugh  at  death. 


36 


THE    CITY  OF  MY   LOVE. 


She  sits  among  th'  eternal  hills, 
Their  crown,  thrice  glorious  and  dear ; 
Her  voice  is  as  a  thousand  tongues 
Of  silver  fountains,  gurgling  clear ; 


Her  breath  is  prayer,  her  life  is  love, 
And  worship  of  all  lovely  things  ; 
Her  children  have  a  gracious  port, 
Her  beggars  show  the  blood  of  kings. 


By  old  Tradition  guarded  close, 

None  doubt  the  grandeur  she  has  seen ; 

Upon  her  venerable  front 

Is  written :  'I  was  born  a  Queen!' 


THE    CITY    OF    MY    LOVE.  37 

She  rules  the  age  by  Beauty's  power. 
As  once  she  ruled  by  armed  might ; 
The  Southern  sun  doth  treasure  her 
Deep  in  his  golden  heart  of  light. 

Awe  strikes  the  traveller  when  he  sees 
The  vision  of  her  distant  dome, 
And  a  strange  spasm  wrings  his  heart 
As  the  guide  whispers :  '  There  is  Rome ! ' 


Rome  of  the  Romans !  where  the  Gods 
Of  Greek  Olympus  long  held  sway ; 
Rome  of  the  Christians,  Peter's  tomb, 
The  Zion  of  our  later  day. 


Rome,  the  mailed  Virgin  of  the  world, 
Defiance  on  her  brows  and  breast ; 
Rome,  to  voluptuous  pleasure  won, 
Debauched,  and  locked  in  drunken  rest- 


Rome,  in  her  intellectual  day, 
Europe's  intriguing  step-dame  grown  ; 
Rome,  bowed  to  weakness  and  decay, 
A  canting,  mass-frequenting  crone. 


o8  THE    CITY    OF    MY    LOVE. 

Then  th'  unlettered  man  plods  on. 
Half  chiding  at  the  spell  he  feels  ; 
The  artist  pauses  at  the  gate, 
And  on  the  wondrous  threshold  kneels 


The  sick  man  lifts  his  languid  head 
For  those  soft  skies  and  balmy  airs  ; 
The  pilgrim  tries  a  quicker  pace, 
And  hugs  remorse,  and  patters  prayers. 

For  ev'n  the  grass  that  feeds  the  herds, 
Methinks,  some  unknown  virtue  yields  ; 
The  very  hinds  in  reverence  tread 
The  precincts  of  the  ancient  fields. 


But  wrapt  in  gloom  of  night  and  death, 

I  crept  to  thee,  dear  mother  Rome  ; 

And  in  thy  hospitable  heart 

Found  rest  and  comfort,  health  and  home, 


And  friendships,  warm  and  living  still, 
Although  their  dearest  joys  are  fled; 
True  sympathies  that  bring  to  life 
That  better  self,  so  often  dead. 


THE    CITY    OF    MY    LOVE.  39 

For  all  the  wonder  that  tliou  wert, 
For  all  the  clear  delight  thou  art, 
Accept  an  homage  from  my  lips, 
That  warms  again  a  wasted  heart. 


And,  though  it  seem  a  childish  prayer, 
I've  breathed  it  oft,  that  when  I  die, 
As  thy  remembrance  dear  in  it, 
That  heart  in  thee  might  buried  lie. 


•iO 


A  PROTEST  FROM  ITALY. 


Amid  Italian  orange  groves 
A  distant  murmur  reached  mine  ear, 
The  wrangling  tongues  of  Western  men, 
Each  crossed  at  arms  with  his  compeer. 


In  that  fair  land,  where  passions  rage 
Briefly,  through  Nature's  gentleness  ; 
Where  the  black  eyebrows'  direst  frown 
Must  yield  to  the  soft  air's  caress  ; 


Where  even  curses  fall  in  words 
Whose  beauty  heals  the  wound  they  make ; 
(Though  strong  to  feel,  those  Southern  hearts, 
They're  timid  to  o'erturn  and  break  ;) 


A    PROTEST    FROM    ITALY.  41 

I  felt  my  life  so  calm  and  deep, 

Such  rapture,  settling  to  such  peace, 

I  sighed  :  '  Hush  !  hush  !  my  countrymen  — 

Let  this  untempered  babbling  cease  ! 

'  Ye  who  assert  your  rights  in  men, 
What  right  is  worth  such  evil  blood  ? 
You  —  frantic  champions  of  the  slave, 
Bethink  —  God  orders  all  for  good. 


1  Shake  not  thus  ruthlessly  your  cup 
Of  new-fermented  liberty, 
Till  the  scum  mantle  to  the  top, 
And  leave  the  sun-touched  liquor  free. 


1  Northern  and  Southron,  part  in  peace, 
Each  to  his  own  contentment  thrive, 
Since  each  divergent  destiny 
May  keep  a  sacred  good  alive.' 


Thus  sang  I  in  that  land  of  rest, 

Till,  drunk  with  Music's  golden  wine, 

I  crossed  my  hands  upon  my  breast, 

And  dreamed  of  heaven  at  Raphael's  shrine. 


42  A    PROTEST    FROM    ITALY. 


Bathed  in  your  icy  Northern  springs, 
My  slumbering  eye  is  roused  to  sight ; 
The  sharp  steel  wind  doth  sunder  all 
My  silken  armor  of  delight. 


Mine  ear,  by  mass  and  anthem  lulled, 
The  trumpet's  brazen  voice  awakes  ; 
From  its  slow  pulses,  keenly  stirred, 
My  blood  its  natural  current  makes. 


Things  which  in  distance  dimly  showed 
Press  on  me  in  the  nearer  view ; 
I  see  the  race  that's  passing  out 
"Weave  hateful  fetters  for  the  new. 


I  see  a  plague,  long  held  aloof, 
That  to  the  social  heart  hath  crept, 
See  blood-hounds  track  the  inner  shrine 
Where,  sacred  once,  the  outcast  slept. 


A    PROTEST    FROM    ITALY. 

I  see,  upon  the  altar  step?, 
Base  Interest  trample  Godlike  Eight. 
Strike,  lyre,  thy  chorus  of  brave  sounds  ! 
Find,  palsied  hand,  thine  ancient  might ! 


Back !  back,  volcanic  flood  !  that  creep'st 
So  snakelike  through  our  peaceful  plains  ; 
Back,  tortuous  Intrigue  !  thou  art  bold 
To  drop  thy  mask  where  Justice  reigns. 


Back,  baleful  force  !  back,  perjured  law  ! 
Sacred  -while  ye  the  right  sustain, 
But  fallen  like  Judas,  to  betray 
The  sinless  blood  for  love  of  gain. 


Judas  !  that  gain  will  serve  thee  nought ! 
It  will  but  buy  a  field  of  blood, 
Whereon  impartial  Time  shall  write, 
*  Here  they  that  fought  for  Freedom  stood. 


'  These  men  the  tie  of  Nature  held, 
A  claim  beyond  the  pride  of  race  ; 
Their  banner  bore  Man's  bleeding  heart 
Without  the  color  of  his  face. 


44  A    PROTEST    FROM    ITALY. 

1  Reluctantly  they  bared  the  sword, 
And  let  the  prudent  scabbard  go  ; 
They  perished  in  the  name  of  Christ; 
His  enemies  would  have  it  so.' 


THERE  AND  HERE. 


The  natural  loves  that  move  my  heart, 

My  country,  matter  not  to  thee  ; 

Yet  let  me  to  my  words  impart 

That  which  may  make  them  one  with  me. 

And  tell  thee  that,  however  dear 

I  hold  the  light  of  Roman  skies ; 

However  from  the  canvas  clear 

The  soul  of  Raphael  blessed  mine  eyes  ; 


Howe'er  intense  the  joy  of  flowers, 
And  the  spring-wedded  nightingale, 
Or  deep  the  charm  of  twilight  hours 
Hushed  to  the  Miserere's  wail ; 


A    PROTEST    FROM    ITALT.  45 

A  holier  joy  to  me  were  given, 
Could  I  persuade  thy  heart  from  wrong ; 
As  rapturous  birds  drop  down  from  heaven, 
With  heaven's  convincement  in  their  song. 


46 


WHEREFORE. 


Why  fell  not  Kossuth  with  the  fall  of  his  country  ? 
Wherefore  yielded  he  not  to  the  blind  inspiration 
Of  the  cup  with  which  Despair  her  own  agony  heightens 
To  madness,  that  traces  no  longer  the  progress  of  sor- 
row, 
Swells  to  one  spasm,  exhausts  her  own  being,  and  is 

not? 
Some  such  poetic  ending  one  asks  of  the  hero, 
Stamped  in  the  bloody  coinage  of  battle  with  greatness. 
As  the  centurial  aloe  responds  to  its  hour, 
Shooting  its  petals  aloft  to  the  eyebrows  of  heaven, 
And  dying  when  they  die,  our  natural  loves  and  desire3 
All  rush  or  creep  on  to  crises  of  anguish  or  rapture. 
After  the  utmost  comes  peace  —  the  cup  of  our  nuptials 
We   shiver   to  shards,  as   knowing  too  well  that   life 

brings  us 
Sordid  and  slow  desecration  of  symbols  most  holy. 
Moth  and  rust  gather  dim  on  the  white  sacramental 
Garment  —  the  body  forsaken  descends  to  corruption. 


WHEREFORE.  47 

Well  held  the  ancients  to  their  ministration  of  fire 

That  rids  man's  heart  and  home  of  their  festering  bur- 
then. 

Even  the  sacrifice  brought  to  bleed  at  God's  altar 

Should  not  survive  the  mood  of  devotion  that  urged  it. 

They,  at  once  ceasing,  shall  thus  be  together  remem- 
bered. 

Why  could  the  man  not  die  with  his  day  of  dominion  ? 

His  work  at  end,  wherefore  live  to  be  scantily  pen- 
sioned 

By  hearts  that  grudge  the  reward  when  it  follows  the 
labor  ? 

Are  then  man's  days  his  own  ?  thou,  the  languid 
survivor 

Of  pangs  and  delights  that  leave  nothing  to  wish  for 
but  dying, 

Is  it  thy  fault  that  a  smiling,  necessitous  patience 

Greenly  o'ergroweth  thy  destiny's  grandiose  ruins  ? 

Had  the  death-angel  stood  at  the  shrine  of  thy  nuptials, 

Thou  wouldst  have  laid  thy  passion-shorn  head  on  his 
shoulder, 

Glad  to  weep  out  thy  life  and  thy  sorrow  together. 

That  could  not  be  —  from  thy  scathed  trunk  of  exist- 
ence, 

Joy  sprang  up,  the  immortal,  the  ever-perennial, 


48  WHEREFORE. 

Bursting  through  ancient  films  of  reserve  and  submis- 
sion, 

Bearing  aloft  in  unwonted,  fragance  and  blossom 

The  force  of  thy  nature,  too  long  in  itself  darkly  cir- 
cling. 

Still  the  pale  stranger  will  come,  not  in  haste  indeco- 
rous, 

With  pinions  all  ruffled,  evoked  by  thy  wild  adjuration ; 

But  in  state  serene ;  with  hands  whose  soft  coolness 
persuadeth, 

And  lips  that  hold  their  own  pause  in  the  music  of 
heaven. 

As  I  walk  in  the  dreary  streets  of  the  city, 
Voiceless  of  music,  and  empty  of  joy  and  of  beauty, 
Meanly  adorned  for  the  meaner  pleasure  of  buying, 
With  such  sickly  growths  as  bloom  out  in  the  newest 

Spring  fashion, 
Something  arrests  me  —  a  painful  thrill  of  compassion 
Strikes   through  my  heart,  ere  my  wandering  reason 

can  question, 
*  Wherefore  this  pang  ? '      'Tis  a  print  of  a  face  most 

familiar 
Between  the  imperial  crown  and  imperial  purple; 
But  oftener  seen  with  the  old  chapeau  and  the  gray 

coat, 


WHEREFORE.  49 

Its  regal  insignia  the  eye,  and  the  brow,  and  the  lip 
then. 

The  world  looked  little  to  him,  as  you  see  by  his 
glances 

Embracing  it  all,  and  embracing  yet  more,  so  I  read 
them, 

The  full  outpouring  of  power  that  stops  at  no  frontier, 

But  follows  I  would  with  I  can,  and  I  can  with  I  do  it ; 

While  common  minds  stand  agape  at  the  mighty  am- 
bition, 

Nor  hear  the  march  till  the  standards  come  flashing 
upon  them. 

Know  you  this  man  ?  why,  the  dome  of  the  Invalides 

trembles 
When  some  poor  mutilate  remnant  of  soldierly  valor 
Comes  limping  towards  you,  and,  touching  your  arm 

with  his  finger, 
Whispers :  '  He's  there ! '   and   his  dead  presence  fas- 
tens upon  you 
In  proportions  unearthly,  while,  choking  and  swelling, 
The   heart  in  your  breast  with  his  passionless  ashes 
claims  kindred. 

Know  you  this  man  ?     Him  even  the  unwilling  Muses 
Honored,   without   whose   honor    Success   is   not   Tri- 
umph. 


50  WHEREFORE. 

Marble  and  canvas  grew  great  with  his  wonderful  fea- 
tures ; 

Though  best  in  warrior  bronze  from  his  column  he 
towers, 

Calmly  rebuking  the  frivolous  race  that  forsook  him, 

Terribly  threatening  the  monarchs  that  crouched  at  his 
bidding. 

Thorwald,  th'  inspired,  must  fashion  the  frieze  for  his 
chamber, 

Dead  Alexander  hang  on  the  wall  as  his  trophy, 

In  the  Roman  palace  he  deigned  not  to  visit. 

Only,  nearest  Apollo,  the  sons  of  the  lyre 

Scattered  more  sparsely  their  homage,  as  bound  to 
withhold  it 

Till  Death  enrolled  him  among  the  calm  shades  of  the 
mighty, 

Whom  to  blame  is  not  cruel,  to  praise  not  inglorious. 

Then  from  Italy  swept  the  high  mass  of  Manzoni, 

And  De  Lamartine  led  the  sweet  psalm  of  his  vespers. 

But  here  we  see  him,  in  sordid  and  careless  attire, 
Shabby,  forgotten,  neglected,  an  invalid  prisoner, 
With  all  his  ruined  life  on  his  pent  bosom  resting, 
And  his  lion-like  despair  on  his  forehead  grown  patient 
Sorrow  has  sickened  and  shaken,  but  dare  not  destroy 

him, 
Lest  she  abridge  one  pang  of  his  long  doom  of  anguish. 


WHEREFORE.  51 

In  his  dressing-gown  stands  he,  his  listless  feet  in 

His    slippers,    a   kerchief  replacing   the  crown  of  an 

empire. 
Mild-souled  Las-Casas  writes  on,  accustomed  to  hearing 
Querulous  plaints  of  unkind  and  uncourteous  treatment, 
Meals  insufficient,  ill  lodging,  and  spies  that  pursue  him 
Here  even,  where  fatally  wounded  to  die  he  has  laid 

him. 

But  at  this  moment,  one  hopes,  from  the  pitiful  present, 
Sublime,  the  past  reclaims   him    with   thick-thronging 

visions, 
Covers  with  banners  and  trophies  the  walls  dank  and 

dreary, 
Leads  up  the  barren  isle  her  magnificent  vista. 
Dreams  he,  perchance,  of  a  new  point  of  fusion  for 

Europe, 
And  in  his  cabinet  models  her  map  and  her  fortune  ? 
Or  has  he,  choosing  a  royal  name  for  his  infant, 
Made  Rome,  in  the  palace  of  Gaul,  a  subordinate  title  ? 
Or  'mid  the  stir  of  the  camp  gives  he  order  for  battle, 
And  sees  his  plumeless  eagle  new-fledged  in  the  sun's 

face? 
1  This  was  at  Jena,'  he  says  :  'how  we  made  the  dogs 

tremble, 
Routed  their  armies,  —  terror  like  lightning  pursued 

them ! ' 


52  WHEREFORE. 

Or :  '  This  was  when  I  welded  my  way  over  icebergs, 
And  like  a  warrior's  bride  lay  the  fair  land  before  me.* 
Or :  '  That  was  when  the  kings  of  the  world  met  in 

Paris, 
Cringing  like  dutiful  slaves  at  the  nod  of  my  pleasure.' 

Thus,  in  Memory's  moonlight  he  harmlessly  wanders, 
Friend  and  ancient  in  shadowy  semblance  attend  him, 
Till  from  her  ambush  Reality  rushes  upon  him, 
Strikes  hand  to  hand,  dispersing  his  phantasmic  glories. 
By  the  dull  shock  awakened,  he  gathers  his  senses, 
Discerns  but  understands  not  himself  and  his  prison  ; 
Fixes    the  heart  of  his  hearer  with  mute  looks  that 

question : 
'  Surely  such  things  have  been  ? '     But  the  mournful 

face  answers 
The   past   with   the   present   despair,  then  he  lowers 

between  them 
The   leaden   vizard    of  pride,  the   stern   lips   lock  in 

silence, 
The  breast  keeps  its  broad  arches  still,  and  the  passing 

convulsion 
Lies  frozen  in  fathomless  eyes  that  to  tears  condescend 

not. 
Break,  mighty   heart,  that,  remembering  nothing  but 

greatness, 
Look'st  on  the  smallest  of  worlds,  still  too  large  for 

thy  freedom. 


WHEREFORE.  53 

Break,  and,  in  breaking,  acknowledge  —  thy  gifts  and 

thy  glories, 
The  civic  wreath,  and  the  bloodier  garlands  of  battle, 
The    sounding   procession,  the   glittering    marches   of 

triumph 
That  beggared  the  treasures  of  Europe,  resistlessly  led 

thee 
To   this   high   court   of  despair,  to   this   kingdom    of 

horror, 
Where  ev'n  the  silent  majesty  of  thy  sorrow 
(Over  itself  still  despotic)  not  wholly  exempts  thee 
From  the  world's    tribute  of  pity,  unwished   for   and 

shameful. 

And  he,  this  new  Prometheus,  wherefore  remains  he 
Held  by  the  torturing  will  of  his  dreadful  enchainer  ? 
How  is  he  narrowly  caged  for  his  captor's  diversion, 
While  the  coarse  vulture  sits  leisurely  tearing  his  vitals, 
Till  his  foemen,  ashamed  of  the  anguish  he  suffers, 
Would    set    him    free,  did    their    statesmanly  maxims 

permit  it  ? 
Death  is  the  birthright  of  all  men,  could  he  not  compel 

it? 
He  who  had  scattered  so  widely  its  terrible  largesse, 
Had  he  reserved  no  delivering  drop  for  his  own  lip  ? 
Could  not  a  soldier's  fate  end   his  great  soldier  for- 
tune? 


54  WHEREFORE. 

Ev'n  the  deserter  dies  not  by  the  hands  of  the  hang- 
man, 

Nor  pines  in  dungeons  —  the  weapons  he  faithlessly 
wedded 

Stand  him  in  stead,  and  from  grief  and  dishonor  re- 
lease him. 

What  divine  word  has  judged  him,  God's  crystallized 
treasure, 

The  man  of  the  ages,  the  quickened  convulsive  out- 
worker 

Of  Nature's  deep  passive  forces,  in  him  grown  vol- 
canic : 

Him,  right  or  wrong,  I  say,  what  divine  word  doth 
judge  him 

Fit  only  to  rot  and  waste  for  an  Englishman's  pleas- 
ure ? 

In  that  last  battle,  when  he,  the  true  point  of  resist- 
ance, 
(Centre   of   France,  as    France  was    of   Europe    the 

centre,) 
He  towards  whose  will  all  power  instinctively  gathered, 
Thence  to  re-emanate,  great  with    the    stamp    of   his 

purpose, 
Holding  the  past  in  solution,  and  sure  of  the  future, 
Was   by  some  force  undiscernible  strangely  out-coun- 
selled, 


WHEREFORE,  00 

It  had  been  easy,  one  thinks,  to  have  led  a  wild  on- 
slaught. 
Swift  with  the  rage  of  desperate-hearted  defiance, 
Terrible  with  the  intent  to  be  deadly  in  dying. 
He  might  have  flung  away  life,  as  a  boon  of  no  value, 
Lees  from  a  shattered  cup,  last  coin  of  a  great  stake 
Scornfully  swept  by  the  gambler  to  fill  up  his  ruin. 
Proud  and  contemptuous  then  had  remained   his  last 

gesture, 
Death    had    found    him  undwindled,  had   known   him 

unconquered 
By    the    stern    smile    congealed    on    his    lips'  bloody 

marble. 
Why  died  he  not  ?     How  easy  a  thing  to  declare  thee  ! 
In  all  the  fiery  hail  of  that  dreadful  encounter, 
Fell  there  no  bullet  commissioned  of  heaven  to  touch 

him. 
Destiny,  faithfully  shielding,  through  numberless  perils 
Circled  him  still,  and  reserved  him  to  perish  by  inches. 
God's  war-angel    stooped    near  him,  from  battle-cloud 

lowering, 
Till  his  deep  whisper  thrilled  the  proud  heart  of  the 

leader. 
After  this  wise  he  spake  :  '  Thus  far  for  thy  pleasure  ; 
Now  for  God's  teaching,  to  thee  and  to  other  men  in 

thee. 
Evade  it  thou  canst  not,  best  thou  abid'st  it  in  patience. 


5G  "WHEREFORE. 

Fly  !  but  it  follows  thee  —  choose  an  asylum  !  it  waits 
thee. 

And,  as  he  flies,  the  prophecy  darkly  attends  him. 

Seek  thee  a  palace  to  screen  the  last  act  of  thine 
empire  ? 

This  is  not  modest  enough  —  thou  must  abdicate  free- 
dom. 

Give  up  thy  crown  ?  thou  must  give  up  the  crown  of 
thy  manhood. 

Yield  all  command  ?  ay,  command  not  thy  boy  nor  his 
mother. 

France  wilt  thou  leave  ?  Somewhat  further  behind  than 
thou  wot'st  of; 

Skies  less  congenial  than  these  shall  grow  vengeful 
above  thee ; 

"Walls  not  so  stately  compress  thy  last  spasm  to  silence. 

In  thy  desolate  sleep  and  more  desolate  waking 

Spirits  unbidden  shall  question  thy  will  and  thine 
actions. 

Voices  that  heed  not  thine  anger  shall  iterate  pre- 
cepts 

Of  truths  eternal  that  sit  where  the  stars  sit  and  judge 
thee. 

Pitiless  fingers  shall  point,  neither  hating  nor  loving, 

Pointing  out  simply  thy  blemishes  stript  of  their  halo, 

And  the  great  thoughts  of  God  which,  involving  thy 
failure, 


WHEREFORE.  57 

Set  thee  aside  as  a  feather,  a  fragment,  an  atom 
Inharmonious  with  infinite  laws  of  Creation. 
If  they  call  thee  infamous,  answer  avails  not; 
Brazen    clamor   of   trumpets   drowns    not    their   still 

speaking. 
If  they  smite  thee,  the  folded  arms  cannot  shield  thee, 
Xor   flashing   eyes    avenge  —  on   thy   heart,   swift   as 

lightning, 
Falls  the  keen  stroke,  the  immortal  must  suffer  and 

die  not. 
Suffer  till  Self,  interclouding  'twixt  soul  and  divineness, 
Vaporous,  huge,  phantasmic,  condense  to  its  essence. 
Suffer  till  flesh  and  bone  bear  the  terrible  traces, 
And  the   soul  sculpture    its  woe   on  the  walls  of  its 

prison ; 
Till  the  closed   eye,  and    the  paralyzed  lip,  fixed  in 

dying, 
Speak  as  no  tongue  could  speak,  and  in  piteous  plead- 
ing 
Claim  from  men's  hearts  the  upheaving  of  grief  for  a 

brother.' 

Further  the  angel  spake  —  from  his  dead  mask  I  read  it : 
*  History  wrot'st  thou  in  blood,  which  the  angels,  tran- 
scribing, 
Color  with  light  and  with  shadow  by  thee  unimagined. 


58  WHEREFORE. 

They  hold  the  book  to  thine  eyes  —  thou  must  learn 

the  deep  lesson, 
Kv'n    as    a   child   that    would    not    with   chiding   and 

scourging  ; 
Till  with  a  wiser  heart  and  a  forehead  less  lofty 
On  the  steps  of  the  temple  thou  meet  the  most  gentle, 
Making  thee  glad  with  these  words  :   "  The  long  school 

time  is  over, 
The  Father  hath  sent  me — his  heart  and  his  mansion 

await  thee." ' 

Have  I  writ  long  ?  and  have  my  wanderings  led  me 
Spinning  frail  webs  from  the   thread   abrupt  of  thy 

question  ? 
Why  died  not  Kossuth  ?     Men  die  as  God  pleases  ; 
Felons  and  madmen  alone  anticipate  rudely 
The  last  consummation,  and  yet  from  their  doom  escape 

not. 
Think'st   thou    thy   work    at   end,   and   thy   discipline 

perfect  ? 
Other  pangs  still  remain,  other  labors  and  sorrows  ; 
Other  the  crises  of  Fate  than  the  crises  of  Being. 
Let  me  round  my  words  with  one  brief  admonition  : 
Take  for  the  bearings  of  life,  thine  own  or  another's, 
This   motto,  blazoned  on   cross  and  on  altar  :  '  God's 

patience.' 


59 


FROM  NEWPORT  TO   ROME. 

1849. 

Ye  men  and  women  of  the  world 
"Whom  purple  garments  soft  enfold, 
I've  moved  among  you  from  my  youth, 
Decorous,  dutiful,  and  cold. 


God  granted  me  these  sober  hues, 
This  quiet  brow,  this  pensive  face, 
That  inner  fires  might  deeply  glow, 
Unguessed  without  the  frigid  vase. 


Constrained  to  learn  of  you  the  arts 
Which  half  dishonor,  half  deceive, 
I've  felt  my  burning  soul  flash  out 
Against  the  silken  web  you  weave. 


60  FROM    NEWPORT    TO    ROME. 

No  earnest  feeling  passes  you 
Without  dilution  infinite ; 
No  word  with  frank  abruptness  breathed 
Must  vent  itself  on  ears  polite. 


In  your  domain,  so  brilliant  all, 
So  fitly  jewelled,  wreathed,  and  hung, 
Vocal  with  music,  faint  with  sweets 
From  living  flower-censers  swung; 


Thronged  by  fair  women,  tireless  all 
As  ever-moving  streams  of  light, 
Yielding  their  wild  electric  strength 
To  contact,  as  their  bloom  to  sight ; 


I  wandered,  while  the  flow  of  sound 
Made  Reason  drunken  through  the  ear, 
Dreaming :  '  This  is  soul-paradise  ; 
The  tree  of  knowledge  must  be  here  — 


'  The  tree  whose  fruitage  of  delight 

Imparts  the  wisdom  of  the  Gods, 

Unlike  the  scanty,  seedling  growth 

That  Learning's  ploughshare  wins  from  clods.' 


FROM    NEWPORT    TO    ROME.  61 

'And  if  that  tree  be  Lore,'  said  one, 
Who  read  my  meaning  in  mine  eyes, 
'No  serpent  can  so  soothly  speak 
As  tempt  these  women  to  be  wise.' 


A  sound  of  fear  came  wafted  in 
"While  these  careered  in  giddy  rout  : 
None  heeded  —  I  alone  could  hear 
The  wailing  of  the  world  without. 


'Mid  dreadful  symphony  of  death 
And  hollow  echoes  from  the  grave, 
It  was  a  brother's  cry  that  swept, 
Unweakened,  o'er  the  Atlantic  wave. 


It  breathed  so  deep,  it  rose  so  high, 
No  other  sound  seemed  there  to  be  ; 
1  Oh  !  do  you  hear  that  woeful  strain?  ' 
I  asked  of  all  the  company. 


They  stared  as  at  a  madman  struck 
Beneath  the  melancholy  moon  ; 
i  We  hear  the  sweetest  waltz,'  they  said, 
1  And  not  a  string  is  out  of  tune.' 


62  FROM    NEWPORT    TO    ROME. 

Then,  with  one  angry  leap,  I  sprang 
To  where  the  chief  musician  stood ; 
I  seized  his  rod  of  rule,  I  pushed 
The  idol  from  his  shrine  of  wood. 


'I've  sat  among  you  long  enough, 
Or  followed  where  your  music  led  ; 
I  never  marred  your  pleasure  yet ; 
But  ye  shall  listen  now,'  I  said  : 


1 1  hear  the  battle-thunder  boom, 
Cannon  to  cannon  answering  loud ; 
I  hear  the  whizzing  shots  that  fling 
Their  handful  to  the  stricken  crowd. 


1  I  see  the  bastions  bravely  manned, 

The  patriots  gathered  in  the  breach ; 

I  see  the  bended  brows  of  men 

Whom  the  next  deathful  sweep  must  reach ; 

I  feel  the  breath  of  agony, 

I  hear  the  thick  and  hurried  speech. 


FROM   NEWPORT    TO    ROME.  63 

'Before  those  lurid  bursts  of  flame 
Your  clustering  wax-lights  flicker  pale; 
In  that  condensed  and  deadly  smoke 
Your  blossoms  drop,  your  perfumes  fail. 


1  Brave  blood  is  shed,  whose  generous  flow 
Quickens  the  pulses  of  the  river  ; 
He,  'neath  his  arches,  muttering  low, 
1  It  shall  be  so,  but  not  forever.' 


1  I  see  the  dome,  so  calm,  so  high, 
A  ghost  of  Greece,  it  hangs  in  air, 
A  Pallas,  in  the  heart  of  war 
It  thrones  above  Life's  coward  care. 


i  The  walls  are  stormed,  the  fort  is  ta'en, 
The  city's  heart  with  fainter  throb 
Receives  its  death-stroke  —  all  is  lost, 
And  matrons  curse  and  children  sob. 


1  Woe  when  the  arm,  so  stalwart  late, 
Tenders  the  sword-hilt  to  the  foe  ! 
"Woe  when  the  form  that  late  defied, 
Prostrate,  invites  the  captor's  blow. 


64  FROM   NEWrOKT    TO    ROME. 

'  The  rich  must  own  the  hidden  hoard, 
The  brave  are  butchered  where  they  stand, 
And  maidens  seek,  at  altar  shrines, 
A  refuge  from  the  lawless  hand. 


'  Till  Death,  grown  sordid,  hunts  no  more 
His  flying  quarry  through  the  street, 
And  the  grim  scaffold,  one  by  one, 
Flings  bloody  morsels  for  his  meat. 


'Were  Death  the  worst,  the  patriot's  hymn 
"Would  ring  triumphant  in  mine  ears ; 
But  pangs  more  exquisite  await 
Those  who  still  eat  the  bread  of  tears. 


1  Pale  faces,  prest  to  prison-bars, 
Grow  sick,  and  agonize  with  life ; 
And  firm  lips  quiver,  when  the  guard 
Thrusts  rudely  back  some  shrieking  wife. 


'  Those  women,  gathering  on  the  sward, 
I  see  them,  helpful  of  each  other; 
The  matron  soothes  the  maiden's  heart, 
The  girl  supports  the  trembling  mother  ; 


FROM    NEWPORT    TO    ROME.  65 

1  Sad  recognitions,  frantic  prayers, 
Greetings  that  sobs  and  spasms  smother ; 
And  u  Oh  my  son  ! "  the  place  resounds, 
And  "  Oh  my  father  !  oh  my  brother  !  " 


1  And  souls  are  wed  in  nobleness 
That  ne'er  shall  mingle  human  breath  ; 
Love's  seed,  in  holy  purpose  sown  ; 
Love's  hope,  in  God's  and  Nature's  faith. 


1  A  flag  hangs  in  the  Invalides 
That  flecks  with  shame  the  stately  dome 
"  Ta'en  from  a  Roman  whom  we  slew, 
Keeping  the  threshold  of  his  home." 


1  And  ye  delight  in  idle  tunes, 
And  are  content  to  jig  and  dance, 
When  e'en  the  holy  Marseillaise 
Sounds  for  the  treachery  of  France  ? 


4  And  not  a  voice  amongst  you  here 
Calls  on  the  traitor  wrath  and  hate  ? 
And  not  a  wine-cup  that  ye  raise 
Is  darkened  by  the  victim's  fate  ? 
5 


66  FROM   NEWPORT    TO    ROME. 

*  Nor  one  with  pious  drops  bewails 
The  anguish  of  the  Mother  world  ?  ' 
1  Oh  hush  !  the  waltz  is  gay/  they  said, 
And  all  their  gauzy  wings  unfurled. 


*  Nay,  hear  me  for  a  moment  more, 
Restrain  so  long  your  heedless  haste  ; 
Hearken  how  pregnant  is  the  time 
Ye  tear  to  shreds  and  flinsr  to  waste. 


'  Through  sluggish  centuries  of  growth 
The  thoughtless  world  might  vacant  wait ; 
But  now  the  busy  hours  crowd  in, 
And  Man  is  come  to  man's  estate. 


'  With  fuller  power,  let  each  avow 
The  kinship  of  his  human  blood  ; 
With  fuller  pulse,  let  every  heart 
Swell  to  high  pangs  of  brotherhood. 

4  With  fuller  light,  let  women's  eyes, 
Earnest,  beneath  the  Christ-like  brow, 
Strike  this  deep  question  home  to  men, 
"  Thy  brothers  perish  —  idlest  thou  ?  " 


FROM    NEWPORT    TO    ROME.  67 

4  With  warmer  breath,  let  mothers'  lips 
Whisper  the  boy  whom  they  caress,  — 
"  Learn  from  those  arms  that  circle  thee 
In  love,  to  succor,  shelter,  bless." 


1  For  the  brave  world  is  given  to  us 
For  all  the  brave  in  heart  to  keep, 
Lest  wicked  hands  should  sow  the  thorns 
That  bleeding  generations  reap. 


'  Oh  world  !  oh  time  !  oh  heart  of  Christ ! 
Oh  heart,  betrayed  and  sold  anew  ! 
Dance  on,  ye  slaves  !  ay,  take  your  sport, 
All  times  are  one  to  such  as  you,' 


68 


WHIT-SUNDAY  IN  THE   CHURCH. 


God's  praise  on  holy  Pentecost ! 
The  feast  of  mystic  inspiration 
That  gave  the  lost  ancestral  tongue, 
Akin  to  each  dismembered  nation. 


Men,  by  convulsive  Nature,  torn 
And  held  apart,  in  strange  solution, 
A  moment  saw  how  Man  should  come 
Out  of  the  age's  evolution. 


Love  poured  the  wine  that  made  them  wise, 
Love  held  the  torch  through  damps  that  smother, 
And,  in  the  stranger  at  his  side, 
To  every  man  unmasked  a  brother ! 


WHIT-SUNDAY    IX    THE    CHURCH.  69 

Then  Babel's  monster  discords  slank 
Like  frightened  beasts  of  prey  to  cover  ; 
The  wolf  learned  wisdom  of  the  lamb ; 
The  ministry  of  wrath  was  over. 

Well  may  ye  range  the  burnished  plate, 
And  heap  white  buds  on  Jesu's  altar, 
Ringing  the  solemn  chorus  out 
From  Gospel  Greek  and  Hebrew  Psalter. 

I  too  will  rest  me  from  the  load 
I  bear  through  all  my  week-day  toiling, 
Thankful,  in  this  still  house  of  God, 
To  shake  off  worldly  dust  and  soiling. 


In  penitential  Litanies 
The  deep  heart  wails  out  its  contrition  ; 
Remorseful  Love,  regretful  Hope, 
Cry  up  to  God  for  their  fruition. 


Now  praise  shall  sound  —  with  fuller  sweep, 
As  to  a  harp  more  high  and  holy, 
Singeth  that  ancient  tuneful  voice  : 
*  God  dwelleth  with  the  meek  and  lowly/ 


70  WHIT-SUNDAY    IN    THE    CHURCH. 

The  sermon  now  —  the  heart  must  still 
Its  changeful  raptures  for  a  season, 
And  take  the  bearings  of  the  times, 
And  follow  Faith  with  patient  Reason. 


What  canst  thou  say,  appointed  man, 
To  help  the  brave  soul's  blind  desiring  ? 
How  wilt  thou  guide  our  fervent  zeal 
To  more  direct  and  true  aspiring  ? 


'My  friends,  the  day  we  celebrate 
Is  that  of  fear  and  glory  blended, 
Whereon  the  promised  Holy  Ghost, 
To  bless  God's  chosen  ones,  descended. 


1  The  sad  disciples  met  to  pray, 
And  in  intenseness  of  devotion 
Continued  till  the  breath  of  God 
Convulsed  the  house  with  mighty  motion. 

4  Then  cloven  flames  upon  them  came, 
Till,  from  their  fiery  immersion, 
They  rose,  and  spake  in  unknown  tongues, 
Arabian.  Cretan,  Syrian,  Persian  ; 


WHIT-SUNDAY    IN    THE    CIIUKCIT.  71 

1  With  superhuman  eloquence 
The  wondrous  works  of  God  displaying, 
All  powers  miraculous  were  theirs  ; 
Such  are  the  gifts  that  follow  praying. 


1  By  you,  my  friends,  be  pious  thoughts 
And  prayerful  habits  cultivated  ; 
Continue  earnest  on  your  knees, 
Be  with  this  service  never  sated. 


1  Frequent  the  altar,  throng  the  aisle, 
Intent  the  inward  flame  to  foster, 
Mingle  the  Psalm  that  David  sang 
With  Litany  and  Paternoster; 


'  And  God,  who  gave  these  holy  men 
The  grace  of  soul  that  we  inherit, 
In  this  appointed  way  shall  pour 
On  you,  likewise,  His  holy  Spirit.' 


And  this,  though  more  ornate  and  full, 
Was  all  the  burthen  of  his  teaching ; 
But  heav'nlier  wisdom  thundered  through 
The  flimsy  foolishness  of  preaching. 


72  WHIT-SUNDAY   IN    THE    CHURCH. 

From  that  dead  Bible  whence  he  drew, 
Reft  of  their  soul,  those  rhythmic  numbers, 
Broke  the  deep  organ  tone  of  Time 
Unheard  in  Apostolic  slumbers. 

And  Christ,  my  Christ,  by  doctrine  slain, 
By  ritual  buried,  from  his  ashes 
Breathed  out  the  fervor  of  his  soul, 
And  swept  the  aisles  and  shook  the  sashes ; 


And  turned  us  to  the  simpler  truth 
He  taught  beside  the  sea's  wild  splendor, 
And  showed  the  meaning  of  his  life 
"With  urgings  passionate  and  tender  : 

v  For  song  and  prayer,  the  old  time  had 
The  Hebrew  and  the  classic  Muses ; 
I  left  a  rule  of  work  and  life, 
A  work  of  love,  a  life  of  uses. 

'  The  painful  labor  of  my  soul 

Brought  all  Life's  day  within  its  morning ; 

I  saw  the  things  that  were  to  be, 

And  from  great  height  gave  timely  warning. 


WIIIT-SUXDAY    IN    THE    CHURCH.  73 

1  That  height  of  holy  ravishment 
Showed  me  the  pallid  Earth  that  fainted  ; 
I  stretched  my  hands  for  help  divine, 
(Beware!  less  prayer  with  self  be  tainted.) 


i  Armed  from  these  upward  communings, 
I  stood,  God's  champion,  before  you, 
To  war  with  all  who  wrought  you  wrong, 
And  wave  heaven's  own  protection  o'er  you. 


*  I  stood  to  tear  the  lying  garb 

Which  helped  the  hypocrite  deceive  you, 

To  point  you  where,  in  majesty, 

The  calm  Truth  waited  to  receive  you. 

1  Nor  gave  I  gracious  words  alone  ; 

My  hands  unto  my  heart  bore  witness  ; 

My  blessings  grew  to  benefits, 

And  wrought  out  Love  through  Labor's  fitness. 


4  The  very  current  of  my  blood 
Ran  so  alight  with  helpful  feeling, 
That  men  who  thronged  me  in  the  crowd 
Blessed  my  unconscious  gift  of  healing. 


74  WniT-SUNDAY    IN    THE    CHURCH. 

1 1  loosed  the  shuddering  heart  from  death, 
That  on  its  pulse  untimely  presses  ; 
Was  careful  ev'n  lest  men  should  faint 
Who  followed  me  in  wildernesses. 


'My  voice  aroused  the  impotent, 

His  limbs  from  fancied  chains  ungyving ; 

"  Wait  not  for  angels'  help,"  I  cried, 

"  Arise,  and  strength  shall  follow  striving. 


'  For  humbled  woman,  too,  I  spake 
A  word  that  saints  had  left  unspoken, 
Bade  her  be  judged  as  man  is  judged, 
And  not  a  hand  slims:  forth  its  token. 


'  I  would  have  brought  so  clear  a  light 
Between  the  slave  and  his  oppressor, 
That  straight  the  greater  had  become 
The  loving  guardian  of  the  lesser. 


'  But  when  my  righteous  ire  was  roused, 
I  taught  no  more  by  gracious  fables  ; 
I  scourged  the  hireling  from  the  shrine, 
And  overthrew  the  merchants'  tables. 


WHIT-SUXDAY   IX    THE    CHURCH.  75 

*  When,  sped  of  God,  my  fate  drew  nigh 
Along  the  flinty  path  of  duty. 
Calmly  I  walked  to  welcome  it, 
Though  veiled  in  horror  was  its  beauty. 


1 1  followed  it  to  triumph  where 

The  dull  Sanhedrim  held  its  sitting, 

To  homage  rendered  by  the  scourge, 

To  regal  rites,  through  shame  and  spitting ; 


'  To  where,  by  high  and  priestly  right, 
Beyond  all  human  force  or  malice, 
The  golden  ichor  of  my  life 
Was  offered  from  its  virgin  chalice. 


'  There  my  last  earthward  utterings 
Bequeathed  my  consciousness  of  heaven, 
As,  in  the  heart  of  God,  I  saw, 
Dying,  man's  claim  to  be  forgiven. 


1  Men  marked  me  by  the  earnest  brow, 
The  arms  stretched  wide,  as  blessing,  shielding 
All,  save  the  naked  heart  of  Love, 
Its  thrill  to  every  sorrow  yielding. 


76  WHIT-SUNDAY    IN    THE    CHURCH. 

'  What  boots  your  incense  to  the  tree 
In  mine  own  fragrant  body  rooted  ? 
For  which  of  my  brave  human  deeds 
Is  your  dead  worship  instituted  ? 


1  Think  ye,  in  these  portentous  times 
Of  wrath,  and  hate,  and  wild  distraction, 
Christ  dwells  within  a  church  that  rests 
A  comfortable,  cold  abstraction  ? 


'  Think  ye  that  here  he  sits  at  ease, 

And  hears  himself  supremely  lauded  ? 

Seek  him  in  less  decorous  haunts, 

Where  backs  are  scourged  and  limbs  are  corded. 

'  He  stands  to  view  the  feast  of  Life, 
Whose  vials  endless  sobs  are  hushing, 
While  wanton  lips  the  vintage  drink, 
Wrung  from  brave  hearts  by  ruthless  crushing. 


1  Beside  the  peasant  spent  with  toil, 
That  sows  his  seed  of  life,  scarce  feeding 
His  group  of  famished  little  ones, 
Whose  joyless  birth  has  hopeless  breeding. 


WHIT-SUNDAY    IN    THE    CHURCH.  77 

'  Or  near  that  deadlier  tainted  crew, 
Whose  painful  looms  provide  you  raiment, 
Who  suffer  hell  to  clothe  the  world, 
And  have  their  nakedness  in  payment. 


*  He  stands  where  earnest  minds  assert 
God's  law  against  a  creed  dogmatic, 
And  from  dead  symbols  free  the  truth 
Of  which  they  once  were  emblematic. 


'  He  is  where  patriots  pine  in  cells, 
To  felons  chained,  or  faint  and  gory 
Ascend  the  scaffold  steps,  to  leave 
Their  children's  heritage  of  glory. 


*  He  is  where  men  of  fire-touched  lips 

Tell,  to  astonished  congregations, 

The  infamies  that  prop  a  crown, 

And  paint  in  blood  the  wrongs  of  nations. 


*  He  cries  :  "  On,  brethren  !   draw  the  sword  ; 
Loose  the  bold  tongue  and  pen,  unfearing; 
The  weakness  of  our  human  flesh 
Is  ransomed  by  your  persevering  !  " 


78  WniT-SUNDAY    IN    THE    CHURCH. 

J  'Twas  for  the  multitude  I  bled, 
Not  for  the  greatest,  richest,  whitest ; 
My  very  cheek,  thou  knout-armed  Russ, 

Takes  color  from  the  cheek  thou  smitest ; 

• 

i  My  very  heart,  most  Christian  prince, 
Wakes  sullen  Spielberg  with  its  sighing ; 
My  very  mother,  childless,  weeps 
Above  those  brave  young  Lombards  dying. 


*  My  very  child,  since  children  mark 
The  earthward  ripening  of  our  nature, 
Is  sold  in  yonder  negro  babe, 
That  ne'er  shall  know  its  father's  feature. 


'  The  pang  of  Judas'  deadly  sin, 

Of  Peter's  cowardly  forsaking, 

Was  less  than  that  of  Christian  stripes, 

That  wake  my  wounds  to  hourly  aching. 


'  And  when  I,  passing,  see  inscribed 
My  name  upon  some  costly  building, 
Whose  deep  aisles  open  up  to  shrines 
Splendent  with  purple  and  with  gilding  ; 


WHIT-SUNDAY    IN    Tllli    CHURCH.  79 

*  Where  pampered  priests,  with  bell  and  book, 
A  simulation  make  of  praying, 
While  the  poor,  ever-cheated,  wait, 
Heart-sick  with  hope,  on  my  delaying  ; 


1 1  think  upon  those  mocking  men 
Who  call  me  Monarch,  to  deride  me ; 
Think,  they  who  gave  the  robe  of  pride 
Were  ever  they  that  crucified  me.' 


80 


THE  MILL-STREAM. 


A  Millee  wanted  a  mill-stream, 
A  mild,  efficient  brook, 

To  help  him  to  his  living,  in 
Some  snug  and  shady  nook. 


But  our  Miller  had  a  brilliant  taste, 

A  love  of  flash  and  spray ; 
And  so,  the  stream  that  charmed  him  most 

Was  that  of  brightest  play. 


It  wore  a  quiet  look,  at  times, 
And  steady  seemed,  and  still ; 

But  when  its  quicker  depths  were  stirred, 
Wow !  but  it  wrought  its  will. 


THE    MILL-STREAM.  81 

And  men  bad  tried  to  bridle  it 

By  artifice  and  force  ; 
But  madness  from  its  rising  grew, 

And  all  alonsr  its  course. 


Twas  on  a  sultry  summer's  day, 

The  Miller  chanced  to  stop 
Where  it  invited  to  '  look  in 

And  take  a  friendly  drop.' 

Coiffed  with  long  wreaths  of  crimson  weed, 

Veiled  by  a  passing  cloud, 
It  looked  a  novice  of  the  woods 

That  dares  not  speak  aloud. 

Said  he  :  '  I  never  met  a  stream 

More  beautiful  and  bland, 
'Twill  gain  my  bread,  and  bless  it  too, 

So  here  my  mill  shall  stand.' 


And  ere  the  summer's  glow  had  passed, 
Or  crimson  flowers  did  fade, 

The  Miller  measured  out  his  ground, 
And  his  foundation  laid. 
6 


82  THE    MILL-STREAM. 

The  Miller  toiled  with  might  and  main, 
Builded  with  thought  and  care ; 

And  when  the  Spring  broke  up  the  ice, 
The  water-wheel  stood  there. 


Like  a  frolic  maiden  come  from  school, 
The  stream  looked  out  anew ; 

And  the  happy  Miller  bowing,  said, 
'  Nov/  turn  my  mill-wheel,  do  ! ' 


'Your  mill-wheel ? '  cried  the  naughty  Nymph, 

i  That  would,  indeed,  be  fine  ! 
You  have  your  business,  I  suppose  ; 

Learn,  too,  that  I  have  mine.' 


'  What  better  business  can  you  have 
Than  turn  this  wheel  for  me  ? ' 

Leaping  and  laughing,  the  wild  thing  cried, 
1  Follow,  and  you  may  see.' 

The  Miller  trudged  with  measured  pace, 

As  Reason  follows  Rhyme, 
And  saw  his  mill-stream  run  to  waste 

In  the  very  teeth  of  time. 


THE    MILL-STREAM.  83 

'  'Fore  heaven ! '  lie  swore,  '  since  thou'rt  perverse, 

I've  hit  upon  a  plan  ; 
A  dam  shall  stay  thine  outward  course, 

And  then,  break  out  who  can.' 


So  he  built  a  dam  of  wood  and  stone, 

Not  sparing  in  the  cost, 
'  For,'  thought  our  friend,  '  this  water-power 

Must  not  be  lightly  lost.' 


1  What !  will  you  force  me  ?  '  said  the  sprite ; 

1  You  shall  not  find  it  gain  ; ' 
So,  with  a  flash,  a  dash,  a  crash, 

She  made  her  way  amain. 


Then,  freeing  all  her  pent-up  soul, 
She  rushed  in  frantic  race, 

And  fragments  of  the  Miller's  work 
Threw  in  the  Miller's  face. 


The  good  man  built  his  dam  again, 
More  stoutly  than  before  ; 

He  flung  no  challenge  to  the  foe, 
But  an  oath  he  inly  swore : 


84  THE    MILL-STREAM. 

1  Thou  seest  resistance  is  in  vain, 
So  yield  with  better  grace.' 

And  the  water  sluices  turned  the  stream 
To  its  appointed  place. 

'  Aha !  I've  conquered  now  ! '  quoth  he, 

For  the  water-fury  bold 
Was  still  an  instant,  ere  she  rose 

In  wrath  and  power  fourfold. 


With  roar,  and  rush,  and  massive  sweep 
She  cleared  the  shameful  bound, 

And  flung  to  utterness  of  waste 
The  Miller  and  his  mound. 


S5 


BEHIND   THE  VEIL. 


The  secret  of  man's  life  disclosed 
Would  cause  him  strange  confusion, 

Should  God  the  cloud  of  fear  remove, 
Or  veil  of  sweet  illusion. 


No  maiden  sees  aright  the  faults 

Or  merits  of  her  lover  ; 
No  sick  man  guesses  if  'twere  best 

To  die,  or  to  recover. 


The  miser  dreams  not  that  his  wealth 
Is  dead,  as  soon  as  buried ; 

Nor  knows  the  bard  who  sings  away 
Life's  treasures,  real  and  varied. 


86  BEHIND    THE    VEIL. 

The  tree-root  lies  too  deep  for  sight, 
The  well-source  for  our  plummet, 

And  heavenward  fount  and  palm  defy 
Our  scanning  of  their  summit. 


Whether  a  present  grief  ye  weep, 

Or  yet  untasted  blisses, 
Look  for  the  balm  that  comes  with  tears, 

The  bane  that  lurks  in  kisses. 


We  may  reap  dear  delight  from  wrongs, 
Regret  from  things  most  pleasant ; 

Foes  may  confess  us  when  we're  gone, 
And  friends  deny  us  present. 


And  that  high  suffering  which  we  dread 

A  higher  joy  discloses  ; 
Men  saw  the  thorns  on  Jesu's  brow, 

But  angels  saw  the  roses. 


87 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


May  I  turn  my  musings  to  thee 
In  my  wintry  loneliness  ? 
May  my  straggling  measure  woo  thee, 
May  my  deeper  thought  pursue  thee, 
Till  thy  sunlight,  striking  through  me, 
Pause  to  fertilize  and  bless  ? 

Could  I  follow  once  this  yearning, 
Thoughts  with  thee  to  interweave, 
Thou  woaldst  give  me  gentle  learning, 
Quick  divining,  deep  discerning, 
Counsel  for  the  darkest  turning 
That  the  Fates  unlettered  leave. 

I,  methinks,  could  speak,  unfearing 
Fault  or  blemish  to  unfold, 
Blots,  the  soul's  deep  beauty  blearing, 
Torturous  scars,  the  frail  heart  searing 
In  such  wise  and  gracious  hearing, 


Life's  arcana  may  be  told. 


88  CORRESPONDENCE. 

Yet  the  wish  can  scarce  embolden 
Timid  thoughts  to  leave  my  breast ; 
Speech  is  silver,  silence  golden, 
Says  the  adage  wise  and  olden  — 
I  to  thee  am  so  beholden, 
I  must  give  thee  which  is  best. 

Didst  thou  ever  model  slightly 

Plastic  images  of  clay, 

Touched  with  grace  and  feeling  sprightly 

That  a  moment  might  delight  thee, 

Not  too  good  or  precious  rightly 

To  unmake  and  throw  away  ? 

Hast  thou  ever  paused,  despairing, 
At  a  block  of  Parian  stone  ? 
Life  and  form  within  thee  bearing, 
Dreams  of  Godlike  beauty  sharing, 
Dimly  hoping,  faintly  daring 
To  develop  the  unknown  ? 

With  the  powers  immortal  vying, 
Like  an  infant  armed  with  fate, 
Not  a  blossom  born  for  dying, 
Not  a  song  that  ends  with  sighing, 
But  a  presence,  Time-defying, 
Thou  conceivest,  to  create. 


CORRESPONDENCE.  89 

Not  to  bear  ignoble  traces 
Hath  this  mountain  crystal  grown, 
But  that  all  celestial  graces, 
Shining  out  through  marble  faces, 
Should  make  glad  Earth's  lonely  places 
With  a  glory  of  their  own. 

Friendships  fragile  and  diurnal 

I  have  wrought  me  in  my  time, 

Out  of  sympathies  most  vernal, 

Dreams  that  charm  Life's  childish  journal, 

Images  of  loves  eternal 

Broken  in  the  play  of  Time. 

But  these  gifts  of  Nature's  lending 
We  should  hold  to  permanence  ; 
Loftier  growths,  more  nearly  bending, 
Heart  more  nobly  heart  befriending, 
Eyes  that  in  their  deepest  blending 
Cannot  lose  their  heavenward  glance. 

Fate's  pure  marble  lies  so  whitely, 
Formlessly,  between  us  cast, 
I  have  wrought  and  studied  slightly  — 
Thou  who  knowest  all  things  rightly, 
From  my  heart's  love,  but  not  lightly, 
Mould  a  Friendship  that  shall  last. 


90 


MOTHER  MIND. 


I  never  made  a  poem,  dear  friend  — 
I  never  sat  me  down,  and  said, 
This  cunning  brain  and  patient  hand 
Shall  fashion  something  to  be  read. 


Men  often  came  to  me,  and  prayed 
I  should  indite  a  fitting  verse 
For  fast,  or  festival,  or  in 
Some  stately  pageant  to  rehearse. 
(As  if,  than  Balaam  more  endowed, 
I  of  myself  could  bless  or  curse.) 


Reluctantly  I  bade  them  go, 
Ungladdened  by  my  poet-mite  ; 
My  heart  is  not  so  churlish  but 
It  loves  to  minister  delight. 


MOTHER    MIND.  91 


But  not  a  word  I  breathe  is  mine 
To  sing  in  praise  of  man  or  God  ; 
My  Master  calls  at  noon  or  night ; 
I  know  his  whisper  and  his  nod. 


Yet  all  my  thoughts  to  rhythms  run, 
To  rhyme  my  wisdom  and  my  wit ; 
True,  I  consume  my  life  in  verse  : 
But  wouldst  thou  know  how  that  is  writ  ? 


'Tis  thus  —  through  weary  length  of  days, 
I  bear  a  thought  within  my  breast 
That  greatens  from  my  growth  of  soul, 
And  waits,  and  will  not  be  expressed. 

It  greatens  till  its  hour  has  come  ; 
Not  without  pain  it  sees  the  light ; 
'Twixt  smiles  and  tears  I  view  it  o'er, 
And  dare  not  deem  it  perfect,  quite. 


These  children  of  my  soul  I  keep 
"Where  scarce  a  mortal  man  may  see 
Yet  not  unconsecrate,  dear  friend, 
Baptismal  rites  they  claim  of  thee. 


THOUGHTS 

AT   THE   GRAVE    OF  ELOISA   AND    ABELARD,    IN   PERE   LA  CHAISE. 

Fair  saint  of  passion,  placidly  reclining, 
Thy  glowing  breast  contained  in  marble  death, 
While  Love's  soft  planet  on  thy  brow  is  shining, 
A  sister  heart  to  thine  would  lend  its  breath. 


'Tis  with  a  thrill  of  joy  I  see  beside  thee 
The  form  that  might  not  pass  the  Convent  grate, 
And  gather,  that  the  happiness  denied  thee 
On  earth  makes  blessed  thine  immortal  state. 


Not  as  Love's  votary  do  I  invoke  thee, 

Nor  as  the  glorious  Sybil  of  despair  ; 

But  as  the  Nun,  when  deeper  voices  wroke  thee 

From  thy  wild  fever-dream  to  toil  and  prayer. 


THOUGHTS.  93 

I  question  not  of  thy  young  days  of  rapture, 
That  earliest  thrill  fond  maidens  dare  not  name, 
The  frantic,  wild  pursuit,  the  daring  capture, 
The  bloom  that  veiled  the  bitter  fruit  of  shame, 


The  gentle  strife  that  masked  thy  gentler  yielding, 
The  magic  words  at  which  thy  virtue  fell, 
Thy  woman's  heart,  adoring,  blessing,  shielding, 
Pardoned  for  loving,  that  it  loved  so  well ; 


Delights  of  Love,  transcending  human  measure, 
Too  tender,  too  sublime  for  human  worth  ; 
And  then,  the  weeping  o'er  thy  ruined  treasure, 
In  which  thy  heart  poured  all  its  pulses  forth. 


This  was,  and  is  not  —  at  the  altar  kneeling, 
In  the  world's  widow-weeds,  I  see  thee  now ; 
The  bitter  glancing  of  a  smile  revealing 
The  anguish  of  the  suicidal  vow. 


And  here  begins  to  mine  thy  spirit's  mission : 
How  fared  it  with  thee  in  thy  cloister  cell  ? 
Did  heaven  console  thee  with  its  dreams  Elysian? 
Or  felt  thy  plundered  heart  the  flames  of  hell  ? 


94  THOUGHTS. 

When  thy  first  force  of  agony  went  from  thee, 
And  left  thee  stunned  and  swooning,  faint  and  dull, 
How  did  thy  garb  of  holiness  become  thee  ? 
"Was  it  ennobling?  was  it  weariful? 


The  saints  who  were  thy  refuge,  grew  they  vengeful  ? 
Or  smiled  they  mournfully  on  thy  retreat  ? 
Hadst  thou  repose  after  a  fate  so  changeful  ? 
Did  God's  dear  love  make  expiation  sweet  ? 


Say,  did  that  soul  of  temper  so  elastic, 
Like  a  bent  bow,  of  its  own  tension  break? 
Or  did  the  Chaos  of  thy  thoughts  grow  plastic, 
And  from  the  hand  divine  new  moulding  take  ? 


For  it  was  long  —  through  many  a  tedious  morrow 
Thy  wildered  mind  its  task  austere  pursued, 
Scourged  on  by  Conscience,  driven  back  by  Sorrow, 
A  Queen  of  Phantoms,  ruling  Solitude. 


At  length  replied  to  me  that  wondrous  woman, 
"With  the  soft  starlight  flitting  o'er  her  brow : 
1  Thou  know'st  my  love  and  grief  were  superhuman 
So  is  my  rapture  ;  I  possess  him  now. 


THOUGHTS.  9,5 

1  What  was,  I  cannot  tell  —  thou  know'st  our  story, 
Know'st  how  we  stole  God's  treasure  from  on  high  ; 
Without  heaven's  virtue  we  had  heaven's  glory ; 
Too  justly  our  delights  were  doomed  to  die. 

;  Intense  as  were  our  blisses,  ev'n  so  painful 
The  keen  privation  it  was  ours  to  share  ; 
All  states,  all  places,  barren  proved  and  baneful ; 
Dead  stones  grew  pitiful  at  our  despair ; 


'  Till,  to  the  cloister's  solitude  repairing, 
Our  feet  the  way  of  holier  sorrows  trod, 
Hid  from  each  other,  yet  together  sharing 
The  labor  of  the  Providence  of  God. 


1  Often  at -midnight,  on  the  cold  stone  lying, 

My  passionate  sobs  have  rent  the  passive  air, 

While  my  crisped  fingers  clutched  the  pavement,  trying 

To  hold  him  fast,  as  he  had  still  been  there. 


*  I  called,  I  shrieked,  till  my  spent  breath  came  faintly ; 
I  sank  in  pain  Christ's  martyrs  could  not  bear ; 
Then  dreamed  I  saw  him,  beautiful  and  saintly, 
As  his  far  Convent  tolled  the  hour  of  prayer. 


96 


THOUGHTS. 


4  Solemn  and  deep  that  vision  of  reunion  — 
He  passed  in  robe,  and  cowl,  and  sandalled  feet ; 
But  our  dissevered  lips  held  no  communion  ; 
Our  long-divorced  glances  could  not  meet. 


'  Then  slowly,  from  that  hunger  of  sensation, 
That  rage  for  happiness,  which  makes  it  sin, 
I  rose  to  calmer,  wider  contemplation, 
And  knew  the  Holiest  and  his  discipline. 


'  Oh  thou  who  call'st  on  me  !  if  that  thou  bearest 
A  wounded  heart  beneath  thy  woman's  vest, 
If  thou  my  mournful  earthly  fortune  sharest, 
Share  the  high  hopes  that  calmed  my  fevered  breast. 

*  Not  vainly  do  I  boast  Religion's  power  ; 
Faith  dawned  upon  the  eyes  with  Sorrow  dim; 
I  toiled  and  trusted,  till  there  came  an  hour 
That  saw  me  sleep  in  God,  and  wake  with  him. 

'  Seek  comfort  thus  for  all  life's  painful  losing; 
Compel  from  Sorrow  merit  and  reward  ; 
And  sometimes  wile  a  mournful  hour  in  musing 
How  Eloi'sa  loved  her  Abelard.' 


Tllol  GHTS.  97 


* 


Tlic  voice  fled  heav'nward  ere  its  spell  was  broken  — 
I  stretched  a  tremulous  hand  within  the  grate, 
And  bore  away  a  ravished  rose,  in  token 
Of  woman's  highest  love  and  hardest  fate. 


98 


SYBIL. 


Your  head  is  wild  with  books,  Sybil, 
But  your  heart  is  good  and  kind  — 

I  feel  a  new  contentment  near  you, 
A  pleasure  of  the  mind. 

Glad  should  I  be  to  sit  beside  you, 

And  let  long  hours  glide  by, 
Reading,  through  all  your  sweet  narrations, 

The  language  of  your  eye. 

Since  the  maternal  saint  I  worshipped 

Did  look  and  love  her  last, 
No  woman  o'er  my  wayward  spirit 

Such  gentle  spell  has  cast. 


SYBIL.  09 

Oil !  tell  nie  of  your  varied  fortunes, 

For  you  know  not  from  your  face 
Looks  out  strange  sadness,  lit  with  rapture, 

And  melancholy  grace. 


You  are  a  gem,  whose  native  brilliance 

Could  never  wholly  reign  ; 
An  opal,  whose  prismatic  fire 

A  white  cloud  doth  restrain. 


And  thus  the  mood  to  which  you  move  me 

Is  never  perfect,  quite  ; 
'Tis  pity,  wonderment,  and  pleasure, 

Opacity  and  light. 


Bear  me  then  in  your  presence,  Sybil, 
And  leave  your  hand  in  mine  ; 

For,  though  human  be  my  nature, 
You've  made  it  half  divine. 


100 


THE    HEART'S   ASTRONOMY. 


This  evening,  as  the  twilight  fell, 
My  younger  children  watched  for  me  ; 
Like  cherubs  in  the  window  framed, 
I  saw  the  smiling  group  of  three. 


While  round  and  round  the  house  I  trudged, 

Intent  to  walk  a  weary  mile, 

Oft  as  I  passed  within  their  range, 

The  little  things  would  beck  and  smile. 


They  watched  me,  as  Astronomers, 
Whose  business  lies  in  heaven  afar, 
Await,  beside  the  slanting  glass, 
The  re-appearance  of  a  star. 


THE    HEART'S    A.STROXOMT.  101 

Not  so,  not  so.  my  pretty  ones, 
Seek  stars  in  yonder  cloudless  sky ; 
But  mark  no  steadfast  path  for  me, 
A  comet  dire  and  strange  am  I. 


Now  to  the  Inmost  spheres  of  light 
Lifted,  my  wondering  soul  dilates  ; 
Now,  dropped  in  endless  depth  of  night, 
My  hope  God's  slow  recall  awaits. 


Among  the  shining  I  have  shone, 
Among  the  blessing  have  been  blest ; 
Then  wearying  years  have  held  me  bound 
Where  darkness  deadness  jxives,  not  rest. 


Between  extremes  distraught  and  rent, 
I  question  not  the  way  I  go ; 
Who  made  me,  gave  it  me,  I  deem. 
Thus  to  aspire,  to  languish  so. 


But  Comets,  too,  have  holy  laws. 
Their  fiery  sinews  to  restrain, 
And  from  their  outmost  wanderings 
Are  drawn  to  heaven's  dear  heart  again. 


102  the  heart's  astronomy. 

And  ye,  beloved  ones,  when  ye  know 
What  wild,  erratic  natures  are, 
Pray  that  the  laws  of  heavenly  force 
Would  help  and  guide  the  Mother  star. 


103 


A   CHILD'S   EXCUSE. 


If  that  I  lay  my  hand  upon  thine  arm, 
Detaining  thee,  be  not  impatient,  friend ! 
'Tis  that  thou  journeyest,  bearing  regal  gifts, 
And  I,  a  beggar,  bid  thee  stand  and  lend. 


Half  for  myself  I  ask  thy  thoughts  of  thee, 
And  holy  words,  that  quicken  and  reprove ; 
Half  that  my  grateful  soul  may  render  back 
The  seed  of  wisdom  in  the  growth  of  love. 


Why  thou  canst  give,  and  I  receive,  a  boon 
So  blest  and  blessing,  'tis  not  mine  to  tell : 
Thou  art  a  free-born  creature  —  light  and  air 
From  thee  the  dungeon-glooms  of  Life  dispel. 


104  a  child's  excuse. 

That  heavenly  Art  has  formed  thee  thus,  I  thank 
Goodness  and  Wisdom  endless  —  that  to  me 
Thou  art  a  herald  of  delight  and  hope, 
I  feel  deep  joy  in  thanking  only  thee. 

I  am  but  wearing  out  my  feeble  hours  — 
Linger  thou  long  in  Manhood's  golden  prime ! 
I  pass,  Life's  bankrupt,  to  eternity ; 
Stay  thou  to  reap  th'  inheritance  of  Time. 


But  even  as  now  my  spirit  rises  up, 
And,  bounding,  brings  its  welcome  to  thine  heart, 
Thus,  when  thou,  too,  shalt  cross  the  icy  stream, 
I  shall  feel  heavenly  virtue  where  thou  art. 

And  if  the  lowliest  tenant  I  may  be 

Of  the  high  precincts  of  an  angel's  home, 

My  mates,  some  day,  shall  mark  a  sudden  joy 

Transfigure  one  who  cries :  '  My  brother's  come ! ' 


105 


THE    ROYAL   GUEST. 


They  tell  me  I  am  shrewd  with  other  men, 
With  thee  I'm  slow  and  difficult  of  speech ; 
With  others  I  may  guide  the  car  of  talk, 
Thou  wing'st  it  oft  to  realms  beyond  my  reach. 


If  other  guests  should  come,  I'd  deck  my  hair, 
And  choose  my  newest  garment  from  the  shelf ; 
When  thou  art  bidden,  I  would  clothe  my  heart 
With  holiest  purpose,  as  for  God  himself. 


For  them,  I  wile  the  hours  with  tale  or  song, 
Or  web  of  fancy,  fringed  with  careless  rhyme ; 
But  how  to  find  a  fitting  lay  for  thee, 
Who  hast  the  harmonies  of  every  time  ? 


106  THE    ROYAL    GUEST. 

Oh  friend  beloved  !  I  sit  apart  and  dumb, 
Sometimes  in  sorrow,  oft  in  joy  divine  ; 
My  lip  will  falter,  but  my  prisoned  heart 
Springs  forth  to  measure  its  faint  pulse  with  thine. 

Thou  art  to  me  most  like  a  royal  guest 
Whose  travels  bring  him  to  some  lowly  roof 
Where  simple  rustics  spread  their  festal  fare, 
And,  blushing,  own  it  is  not  good  enough. 


Bethink  thee,  then,  whene'er  thou  com'st  to  me 
From  high  emprise  and  noble  toil  to  rest, 
My  thoughts  are  weak  and  trivial  matched  with  thine ; 
But  the  poor  mansion  offers  thee  its  best. 


107 


MY  LAST  DANCE. 


The  shell  of  objects  inwardly  consumed 
Will  stand  till  some  convulsive  wind  awakes  ; 
Such  sense  hath  Fire  to  waste  the  heart  of  things, 
Nature  such  love  to  hold  the  form  she  makes. 


Thus  wasted  joys  will  show  their  early  bloom. 
Yet  crumble  at  the  breath  of  a  caress  ; 
The  golden  fruitage  hides  the  scathed  bough ; 
Snatch  it,  thou  scatterest  wide  its  emptiness. 


For  pleasure  bidden,  I  went  forth  last  night 
To  where,  thick  hung,  the  festal  torches  gleamed  ; 
Here  were  the  flowers,  the  music,  as  of  old ; 
Almost  the  very  olden  time  it  seemed. 


108  MY    LAST    DANCE. 

For  one  with  cheek  unfaded  (though  he  brings 
My  buried  brothers  to  me  in  his  look) 
Said,  ;  Will  you  dance  ?  '     At  the  accustomed  words 
I  gave  my  hand,  the  old  position  took. 

Sound,  gladsome  measure  !  at  whose  bidding  once 
I  felt  the  flush  of  pleasure  to  my  brow, 
While  my  soul  shook  the  burthen  of  the  flesh, 
And  in  its  young  pride  said,  *  Lie  lightly,  thou  ! ' 


Then,  like  a  gallant  swimmer,  flinging  high 
My  breast  against  the  golden  waves  of  sound, 
I  rode  the  madd'ning  tumult  of  the  dance, 
Mocking  fatigue,  that  never  could  be  found. 


Chide  not  —  it  was  not  vanity,  nor  sense, 
(The  brutish  scorn  such  vaporous  delight,) 
But  Nature,  cadencing  her  joy  of  strength 
To  the  harmonious  limits  of  her  right. 


She  gave  her  impulse  to  the  dancing  Hours, 
To  winds  that  weep,  to  stars  that  noiseless  turn ; 
She  marked  the  measure  rapid  hearts  must  keep, 
Devised  each  pace  that  glancing  feet  should  learn. 


MY    LAST    DANCE.  109 

And  sure,  that  prodigal  o'erflow  of  life, 

Unvowed  as  yet  to  family  or  state, 

Sweet  sounds,  white  garments,  flowery  coronals 

Make  holy  in  the  pageant  of  our  fate. 


Sound,  measure  !  but  to  stir  my  heart  no  more  — 
For,  as  I  moved  to  join  the  dizzy  race, 
My  youth  fell  from  me  ;  all  its  blooms  were  gone, 
And  others  showed  them,  smiling,  in  my  face. 

Faintly  I  met  the  shock  of  circling  forms 
Linked  each  to  other,  Fashion's  galley-slaves, 
Dream-wondering,  like  an  unaccustomed  ghost 
That  starts,  surprised,  to  stumble  over  graves. 

For  graves  were  'neath  my  feet,  whose  placid  masks 

Smiled  out  upon  my  folly  mournfully, 

While  all  the  host  of  the  departed  said, 

*  Tread  lightly  —  thou  art  ashes,  even  as  we.* 


110 


MY   SEA-WARD  WINDOW. 


The  sweet  moon  rules  the  east  to-night, 
To  show  the  sun  she,  too,  can  shine  — 

From  his  forsaken  cell  of  night 

She  builds  herself  a  jewelled  shrine. 

From  my  lone  window  forth  I  look 
Where  the  grim  headlands  point  to  sea, 

And  think  how  out  between  them  passed 
The  ship  that  bore  my  friend  from  me. 

A  track  of  silvery  splendor  leads 

To  where  my  straining  sight  was  staid ; 

It  might  be  there  our  two  souls  met, 
And  tows  of  earnest  import  made. 


3IY    SEA-WARD    WINDOW.  Ill 

But  then,  the  Autumn's  noontide  glow 
O'er  the  still  sea  stretched  far  and  wide, 

While  kneeling,  watching  from  the  cliffs, 
*  My  friend  is  dear  to  me ! '  I  cried. 


My  little  children,  dancing,  cried, 

*  Why  do  you  kneel,  and  gaze  so  far  ?  ' 

'  I  kneel  to  bless  my  parting  friend, 
And  even  ye  forgotten  are.' 

And  one  might  ask,  l  What  boots  this  song, 
Sung  lonely  to  yon  wintry  skies  ?  ' 

It  leads  me,  by  a  holier  light, 

Where  Memory's  solemn  comfort  lies. 


112 


AN  APOLOGY 

FOR   A   WARM   WORD    SPOKEN. 

I  spake,  perhaps,  too  sharp  a  word 
For  one  bred  up  in  modesty ; 
But  base  injustice,  trivial  scorn 
On  honor  heaped,  had  angered  me. 

The  smile  of  courtesy  forsook 
These  lips,  so  timid  even  for  good ; 
While  o'er  the  paleness  of  my  brow 
Flashed,  crimson,  the  indignant  blood. 

Nor  could  I  to  the  contest  bring 
The  trained  weapon  of  the  mind, 
Snatching  from  Reason's  armory 
Such  shafts  as  grief  had  left  behind  — 


AN   APOLOGY.  113 

Grief  for  the  faltering  of  the  Age, 
Grief  for  my  country  and  my  race, 
Grief  to  sit  here  with  Christian  men, 
That  boast  their  want  of  Christian  grace. 


I  say  not  that  the  man  I  praise 

By  that  poor  tribute  stands  more  high  ; 

I  say  not  that  the  man  I  blame 

Be  not  of  purer  worth  than  I ; 


But  when  I  move  reluctant  lips 
For  holy  Justice,  human  Right, 
The  sacred  cause  I  strive  to  plead 
Lends  me  its  favor  and  its  mi^ht. 


And  I  must  argue  from  the  faith 
Which  gave  the  fervor  of  my  youth, 
Or  keep  such  silence  as  yon  stars, 
That  only  look  and  live  God's  truth. 
8 


114 


ENTBEHREN. 


On  !  happy  he  who  never  held 

In  trembling  arms  a  form  adored  ! 

Oh !  happy  he  who  never  yet 

On  worshipped  lips  love's  kisses  poured ! 

Though,  worn  in  weary  ways  of  thought, 
Thy  lonely  soul  eat  pilgrim-bread ; 
Though  smiling  Beauty  in  thy  path 
Her  banquet  of  delights  should  spread, 

And  bare  to  thee  her  rosy  breast, 
And  pour  for  thee  the  golden  wine 
That  throngs  thy  brain  with  visions  blest, 
Each  than  the  last  more  inly  thine ; 


ENTBEHREN.  115 

'Tis  but  the  phantom  of  an  hour 
That  fades  before  thy  waking  glance, 
And  not  that  high  ideal  of  thought 
Which  forms  the  bounds  of  hope  and  chance. 


Bind  not  the  giant  of  the  soul 
By  bootless  vows  to  wear  a  chain, 
Whose  narrow  fetters,  pressing  close, 
Its  nobler  growth  shall  rend  in  twain. 


The  Infinite,  that  sees  us  thus 
Mould  its  transcendent  form  in  clay, 
Tramples  our  idol  into  dust, 
And  we  afresh  must  seek  and  pray. 


And  thou  shalt  suffer  to  be  free, 
But  most  shalt  suffer  to  be  bound ; 
Pour,  then,  the  cup  of  thy  desire 
An  offering  upon  holy  ground. 


116 


COQUETTE  ET  FROIDE. 


What  is  thy  thought  of  me? 
"What  is  thy  feeling  ? 
Lov'st  thou  the  veil  of  sense, 
Or  its  revealing? 


Leav'st  thou  the  maiden  rose 
Drooping  and  blushing  ? 
Or  rend'st  its  bosom  with 
Kissing  and  crushing  ? 


I  would  be  beautiful, 
That  thou  should'st  woo  me ; 
Gentle,  delightsome,  but 
To  draw  thee  to  me. 


COQUETTE    ET    FROIDE.  117 

Yet,  should  thy  longing  eye 
Ever  caress  me, 
And  quickened  Fantasy 
Only  possess  me, 

Thus  thy  heart's  highest  need 
Long  would  I  cherish, 
Lest  its  more  trivial  wish 
Pall,  and  then  perish. 


Would  that  Love's  fond  pursuit 
Were  crowned  never, 
Or  that  his  virgin  kiss 
Lasted  for  ever ! 


118 


COQUETTE  ET  TENDRE. 


To  mine  arm  so  closely  clinging, 
Looking,  lingering  in  mine  eyes  ; 
Say,  what  hidden  thought  is  bringing 
Change  of  cheek  and  smothered  sighs  ? 


Oft  I  think  thine  hands  caress  me 
With  each  object  that  they  yield, 
And  the  glances  that  repress  me 
Sidelong  lure  me  to  the  field. 

Dost  thou  own  a  secret  pleasure 
When  our  thoughts  half-uttered  meet  ? 
And  what  calculations  measure 
These,  thy  tactics  of  retreat  ? 


COQUETTE    ET    TENDRE.  ll'J 

Seeking,  still  tliou  seein'st  to  shun  me  ; 
Turning  hence,  our  looks  still  blend ; 
Waste  no  further  spell  upon  me  — 
Come  —  what  would'st  thou  of  thy  friend  ? 


Not  too  deeply  would  I  task  thee, 
Censure  none  thy  woman's  art ; 
Ask  thyself  the  things  I  ask  thee  ; 
Fathom  thine  own  doubtinsr  heart. 


ANSWER, 


'Tis  a  trick  of  ancient  learning 

Riper  age  effaceth  not ; 
Youth's  warm  impulses  returning, 

Sage-eyed  prudence  is  forgot. 


Ere  I  knew  life's  sober  meaning, 
Nature  taught  me  simple  wiles, 

Gave  this  color,  rising,  waning, 

Gave  these  shadows,  deepening  smiles 


120  COQUETTE    ET    TENDRE. 


More  she  taught  me,  sighing,  singing, 
Taught  me  free  to  think  and  move, 

Taught  this  fond,  instinctive  clinging 
To  the  helpful  arm  of  love. 


If  there's  evil  in  my  bosom, 
Aid  thou  me  to  keep  it  down  ; 

Show  the  worm  within  the  blossom, 
I,  like  thee,  will  shrink  and  frown. 


Is  our  jesting,  then,  so  fateful  ? 

I'll  be  colder,  if  I  must ; 
Do  not  chide  that  I  am  grateful, 

Dare  not  mock  my  childish  trust. 


121 


GRETCIIEN  TO   GOETHE. 

Nickt  kilssen,  cs  ist  so  rauli,  aber  liebcn,  wo's  moglich.  ist. 

Nay,  unhand  me,  gentle  stranger ; 
For  my  stainless  maidenhood 
Bodes  me  some  unproven  danger 
From  a  kiss  abrupt  and  rude. 

Well  I  know  thou'rt  far  above  me  ; 
Genius  gives  thee  rank  divine  ; 
But  if  thou  wilt  purely  love  me, 
All  my  grateful  heart  is  thine. 


122 


STANZAS. 


Acres  of  rose-garden  swell  the  slopes  of  Persia, 
And  the  blushing  summer  binds  from  them  her  hair 
In  her  veil  star-spangled,  in  her  saffron  vesture, 
Roses  still  she  gathers,  still  scatters  everywhere. 


Roses,  many-gathered,  yield  one  drop  of  attar, 
Fullest  concentration  and  faintness  of  delight ; 
This  the  winter  treasures,  breath  of  Beauty  frozen, 
Soul  of  sense  that  summons  lost  Summer  back  to  sight. 


Poets  thus  that  fiing  us  lavish  growth  of  blossoms 
Gift  us  with  their  Summer,  perishing  ere  they ; 
They  who  press  life's  secret  from  its  pleasures,  leave  us 
Ravishment  unfading,  a  joy  of  joys  for  aye. 


123 


OEOZ. 


He  was  —  from  out  the  primal  darkness 
The  glancing  of  his  armor  shone, 
From  depth  to  depth  his  starry  traces 
Throughout  the  great  abyss  were  strown. 


He  was  —  ere  there  was  one  to  worship, 
Ere  spirit  into  matter  came, 
Ere  heart  had  fainted  at  his  greatness, 
Ere  tongue  had  trembled  with  his  name. 


He  was  —  and  human  souls  came  gifted 
"With  this  great  thought,  their  dower  of  birth  ; 
And  men  in  childish  fashion  cherished 
Some  symbol  that  was  God  on  earth. 


124:  eEos. 

He  was  —  the  upper  air  contained  him, 
The  sunlight  was  his  smile  of  grace  ; 
In  wrath  he  gathered  clouds  about  him, 
And  loosed  the  thunder  for  its  race. 


lie  was  —  prophetic  spirits  sought  him 

At  isolated  mountain  shrines  ; 

His  breathing  lit  volcanic  fires, 

His  whisper  stirred  the  sombre  pines. 


He  was  —  men  writ  his  deeds  in  fables, 
Priests  in  his  name  ruled  well  or  ill ; 
Their  best  of  knowledge  could  but  give  him 
The  Sovran  Deity  of  will. 


He  was  —  through  thoughts  and  things  chaotic, 
Through  doubt  and  dreaming,  ever  new, 
Through  creed  profane  and  impious  temple 
Still  strangely  out  of  man  he  grew. 


He  was  —  o'er  human  thought  and  impulse 
Brooding,  till  that  untrammelled  sea 
Set  to  the  golden  tide  of  duty, 
The  law  of  Nature's  majesty. 


eEos.  125 


Still  must  thou  brood,  auspicious  Power ! 
A  tenderer,  deeper  spell  we  crave  ; 
A  holy  harmony  must  gather 
The  billowy  Being,  wave  to  wave. 


Not  pounding  precepts  dry  and  dusty, 
Like  schoolmen  wrangling  in  a  gown, 
Came  those,  whom  to  our  grateful  knowledge 
The  ages  reverentlv  hand  down. 


The  tasks  they  wrought  were  tasks  Titanic ; 
"With  strength  proportioned  to  our  need, 
With  mighty  sweep  of  line  and  plummet, 
Thev  laid  the  basis  of  our  creed. 


From  high-strung  thought  to  high-nerved  action, 
Or  through  the  painfulness  of  art, 
Or  depth  of  saintliness  outshining, 
They  grew,  the  heroes  of  the  heart. 


The  Prophet  on  the  flaming  mountain, 
The  Sage  in  Learning's  leafy  grove, 
The  Sybil  in  her  awful  beauty. 
Waited  the  birth  serene  of  Love. 


126  €>E°2- 

Then  Love  appeared,  the  hope  of  ages, 
Love,  sad  and  strong,  with  bleeding  brow, 
Wide-wandering  as  the  fertile  waters, 
Asking  of  Earth  :  '  Why  weepest  thou  ? ' 


He  came  ;  and  men,  beneath  his  urging, 
Ko  more  in  doubt  and  darkness  strode, 
But  dared  one  valorous  leap  to  Heaven, 
Brought  thence  Divineness,  conquered  God. 


127 


PHILOSOPII-MASTER    AND    POET-ASTER. 


When  I  and  Theologus  cannot  agree, 

Should  I  give  up  the  point,  pray  you,  or  lie  ? 

Shall  I  out-hector  him,  stubborn  and  horrid, 

Glowing  brick-scarlet  from  bosom  to  forehead  ? 

Give  womanly  malice  for  masculine  scorn  ? 

Render  sharpness  for  roughness,  and  needle  for  thorn  ? 

Shall  I,  whose  domain  is  poetical-quizzical, 

And  he,  who  affects  the  concrete-metaphysical, 

Degrade  the  high  hobbies  that  carry  us  far 

(We're  well-mounted,  both)  to  the  broomstick  of  war  ? 

Or  were  it  not  better,  for  peace  and  digestion, 

Serenely  to  rest  in  the  previous  question  ? 

"Where-unto  shall  I  liken  Theologus, 

And  myself,  unto  him  not  homologous  ? 

I  am  a  fairy  that  gives  little  feasts 

To  pitiful,  witiful  birdlings  and  beasts, 

To  birds  that  will  sing,  and  to  beasts  that  will  roar, 

To  pay  for  their  supper,  and  ask  nothing  more. 


128  PIIILOSOril-MASTER    AND    POET-ASTER. 

When  Theo  is  good,  I  delight  to  delight  him, 

And  so  to  my  whimsical  banquet  invite  him ; 

But,  once  seated  there,  how  he  lays  down  the  law 

With  a  sweep  of  his  mild  and  magnificent  paw  ! 

He  don't  enter  into  my  dishes  of  trifle 

Any  more  than  a  bomb  in  the  bore  of  a  rifle ; 

Or  if  he  does  enter,  he  puts  his  foot  in  it, 

And  marvels  of  frostwork  sink  down  in  a  minute. 

If  I  venture  to  call  for  the  sparkling  Sillery, 

He  serves  me  a  salvo  of  heavy  artillery ; 

Or  I  offer  some  sweet  thing :  '  I  made  it  myself  — 

He  pushes  the  rubbish,  and  smashes  the  delf — 

My  terrified  guests  sit  in  silence  around, 

Their  eyes  wide  with  wonder,  or  fixed  on  the  ground ; 

They  leave  at  the  earliest  signal,  that  day, 

The  Thund'rer  has  frightened  the  Muses  away. 

Where-unto  shall  I  liken  Theologus, 

Planning  attacks  and  preparing  socdologers  ? 

Saving  the  perilous  soul  of  the  nation 

By  holiest,  wholesomest  vituperation. 

He  is  a  Vulcan,  concede  me  that,  prithee, 

Forging  old  ploughshares  to  swords  in  his  smithy ; 

Heating,  and  beating,  and  hammering  out, 

Dealing  huge  blows  and  wild  sparkles  about. 

I,  as  a  vagabond  minstrel,  appear 

At  the  smoke-darkened  door,  and  begin :  '  Vulcan,  dear, 


PHILOSOPH-MASTER    AND    POET-ASTER.  129 

Give  over  your  murderous  toil  for  an  hour, 

And  yield  your  rude  senses  to  Music's  soft  power. 

I'll  peal  you  a  war-song,  of  foray  and  fight  — 

I'll  lisp  you  a  love-song,  a  song  of  delight  — 

I'll  sing  you  all  songs  and  all  measures  I  know, 

Dear  Savage,  if  you'll  leave  off  hammering  so  ! 

So  I  choose  me  a  song,  not  superfluously  wordy, 

And  wind  up  my  wandering  hurdy-gurdy. 

Kling-klang  goes  the  forge,  toodle-lootle  go  I; 

The  blows  cleave  the  anvil,  the  music  the  sky ; 

The  full  tides  of  harmony  rise  and  outpour ; 

If  '  Music  have  charms,'  he  is  savage  no  more. 

But  as  warble  brings  warble,  so  crash  follows  crash  — 

I  see  his  brow  steam  in  the  heat  and  the  flash ; 

Kling-klang,  whing-whang  !  he  strikes  faster  and  faster  : 

I  am  silent ;  he  cries  out :  *  Acknowledge  your  Master ! ' 

Oh  yes  !  you  are  foremost  at  that,  if  you  will, 

If  a  triumph  of  noise  be  a  triumph  of  skill ; 

But  downward  comes  hammering,  upward  goes  song ; 

To  this  sturdy  muscles,  to  that  wings  belong. 

Where-unto  shall  my  fancy  compare  him  ? 
How  find  a  simile  that  shall  declare  him  ? 
I  am  a  jockey,  starved,  sweated  to  weight, 
And  for  love,  not  for  money,  ride  wagers  with  Fate, 
9 


130  rHILO  SOPH-MASTER    AND    POET-ASTER. 

Borrowing  a  gallop,  as  oft  as  I'm  able, 
From  a  certain  winged  steed  of  Apollo's  own  stable. 
Now,  when  my  competitor's  distanced  and  blown, 
And  I  think  the  prize  goblet  is  fairly  mine  own, 
Out  starts  from  the  road-side  a  creature  tremendous, 
Of  stride  and  proportion  uncouthly  stupendous, 
And,  on  this  Phenomenon  Paleontologous 
High-perched,  who  should  sit  but  the  doughty  Theolo- 
gy ? 
The  Hypogriff  trembles  ;  I  throb  to  the  soul ; 
They  pass,  and  are  heralded  first  at  the  goal. 
Though   my  steed   and  myself  seem  a  mouse   and   a 

spider 
Compared  to  that  hugeness  of  beast  and  of  rider, 
I  try  to  pluck  up  some  small  remnant  of  courage, 
And  at  the  rude  victory  make  some  demurrage. 
Theologus  looks  from  his  saddle  sublime, 
Saying:  ;  Peace,  feeble  nursling  of  music  and  rhyme  — 
I  was  putting  Leviathan  through  his  great  paces  ; 
Farewell  —  we  are  off  for  the  elephant  races.' 


131 


MY  LECTURE. 


A    STUDY   OF    LIFE. 


Might  I  define  the  pleasure  of  existence, 

'Twere  threefold  —  effort,  yielding,  and  resistance ; 

In  each  soft  spasm  of  the  thrilling  nerves, 

In  impulse,  which  for  wide-spread  action  serves, 

I  read,  as  Sages  in  the  far  Divine, 

At  every  point  of  life,  a  mystic  trine. 

Hence  joy  of  building  up,  and  casting  down, 
That  fells  a  forest,  fashions  out  a  town ; 
Hence  Music's  twofold  joy,  in  power  that  wrings 
Softest  agreement  from  discordant  strings, 
And  in  the  gift  to  feel,  through  dead'ning  years, 
Its  heaven-lent  passage  to  the  source  of  tears. 

Hence  joy  of  Sight,  that  pilgrim,  wandering  far 
To  ask  of  JEther  its  remotest  star ; 


132.  MY   LECTURE. 

That  turns  from  plains  whose  flowery  growths  invite, 
To  rifle  mountain-tops  of  new-fallen  light; 
Nor  can  accept  the  bounty  of  the  sun, 
But  it  untwists  to  seven  his  web  of  one. 

Hence  joy  of  conquest,  brutal  in  the  rude, 
By  gentler  souls  to  gracious  ends  pursued. 
As  savage  creatures  rush  upon  their  prey, 
Men  seize  and  hurl  a  brother  man  to  clay. 
Could  the  same  strength  of  will  and  arm  avail 
To  reconvulse  with  thought  those  features  pale, 
Full  many  a  murderer,  past  the  heat  of  strife, 
Would,  with  his  own,  buy  back  the  squandered  life. 
Such  power  were  rapture  !  but  the  rigid  corse 
Lies  starkly,  landmark  of  his  wasted  force. 

This  pang  remembering,  learns  th'  unfashioned  heart 

Justice  and  grace  must  rule  the  warrior's  art. 

Soon  waves  the  banner  for  some  fancied  good, 

And  men  take  arms  to  rescue  Holy  Rood; 

Then  single  saintly  martyrs  burn  or  bleed 

To  conquer  in  the  conquest  of  their  creed. 

Last,  we  apply  us,  taught  of  Day  and  Night, 

To  emulate  the  victories  of  Light; 

Imperial  countries  win  through  gifts  and  smiles, 

Barbaric  homage  from  unlettered  isles  ; 


MY   LECTURE.  133 

The  world  lies  girdled  with  our  kind  intent, 
And  "Wisdom  grows  our  conquering  element. 

This  love  hath  subtlest  forms,  to  such  dim  length 
Man  feels  along  his  own  projected  strength, 
To  where,  between  blue  air  and  ocean  blue, 
lie  weds  the  old  Creation  with  the  new. 
In  Science,  Manners,  Art,  one  instinct  guides, 
In  all  that  glistering  passes  or  abides ; 
To  mould  his  soul  in  every  outward  thing, 
And  dwell,  a  God,  where  he  is  born  a  King. 
Whether  he  weld  his  fetters  on  th'  Ideal, 
Or  chasten  to  sublimity  the  Real, 
lie  writes  on  each  fair  wonder  he  doth  frame, 
•  This,  by  Creative  will,  from  Chaos  came ; ' 
And  hangs  this  sentence  on  the  Minster's  door : 
1  Thus  I  reach  upward,  till  I  learn  to  soar.' 
Xay,  ev'n  in  Death  he  bends  not  to  his  doom ; 
His  piteous  spoil  feigns  splendor  in  the  tomb ; 
His  dauntless  courage  bridges  o'er  the  sky, 
And  darkly  conquers  immortality. 

Pass  we  to  joy  of  contrast,  the  combined 
Kaleidoscopic  working  of  the  mind, 
Whose  law  lies  deeper  than  our  thoughts  assume ; 
Since  Fancy,  sitting  at  her  tireless  loom 


134  MY    LECTURE. 

To  weave  soul-raiment  of  the  thread  of  Fate, 
By  Nature  reads  to  pattern  and  to  mate, 
And  blends  her  bright  and  dark  so  cunningly, 
That  one  without  the  other  could  not  be. 
Nature,  that  ministers  to  this  delight, 
And  consecrates  our  pleasure  fo  a  right, 
True  to  her  teaching,  queenly  souls  will  smile 
To  mask  themselves  in  beggar  weeds  awhile, 
While  starving  sinners  Lazarus  might  deride 
Hug  purple  rags,  and  feed  themselves  on  Pride. 

The  eagle's  wing  outstrips  the  car  of  Morn ; 
The  lark  laughs  back  the  eagle's  flight  to  scorn. 
'  Soarest  thou  sunward  ?  here  I  poise  and  sing, 
And  set  the  heart  of  heaven  a-fluttering.' 

As  the  dull  mirror,  leaden,  shallow,  cold, 

Must  flush  and  teem  with  life  it  cannot  hold ; 

As  Echo  utters,  with  unchanging  cheek, 

Love's  tenderest  vow,  or  Passion's  wildest  shriek  ; 

So  minds,  by  trivial  impulses  controlled, 

Catch  stern  contagion  from  the  nobler  souled ; 

So  heroes  shudder,  in  high-hearted  rest, 

To  feel  the  Syren  thrilling  through  their  breast. 

Mark  the  wild  flashes  gloomy  natures  show, 
That  heap  Life's  fuel  for  a  moment's  glow ; 


MY    LECTURE.  135 

Mark  ev'n  the  sage's  armor  soothly  bit 
By  the  chance  arrow  of  an  Idiot's  wit. 

Delights  to  kindred  pangs  their  sharpness  owe, 

Dews  to  the  desert,  evergreens  to  snow. 

When  wasted  Life  grows  valueless  and  vain, 

Men  needs  must  suffer  to  enjoy  again. 

The  rapture  of  a  moment's  rest,  in  pain  ; 

The  bitter  pelting  of  the  outside  storm, 

That  makes  the  heart  of  home  so  bright  and  warm  ; 

The  wounds  of  slanderous  tongues,  whose  poison  finds 

Such  heavenly  balm  in  sympathetic  minds  ; 

The  strange  intensity  that  buried  loves 

Give  to  a  friendship  that  yet  lives  and  moves ; 

Youth  grasping  Age  —  Age  clinging  back  to  Youth; 

'Tis  thus  we  span  th'  opposing  shores  of  truth, 

And  Samson's  riddles  to  all  time  belong : 

'  Meat  from  the  eater,  sweetness  from  the  strong.' 

Woe,  were  these  fostering  hindrances  removed ! 
With  all  we  hated,  gone  were  all  we  loved ; 
Vanished  were  Virtue,  with  the  power  to  sin ; 
Will  with  necessity,  that  pent  it  in. 
Could  the  volcanic  spirit  burst  aside 
Its  crust  of  circumstance,  and,  rushing  wide, 
Stoop  o'er  Creation  with  untrammelled  right 
To  conquer  to  its  bounds  of  appetite, 


136  MY    LECTURE. 

A  moment's  power  the  effort's  self  would  lend 
To  rage  with  whitening  fury,  fuse  and  blend  ; 
Then,  conquered  by  the  calm  Infinity, 
It  would  disperse,  diffuse,  and  cease  to  be. 

Too  little  in  us  the  Creative  rules ; 

Wildly  we  war  with  precepts  and  with  schools 

That  help  us  to  high  wants,  but  put  aside 

Wishes  that  feed  our  solitary  pride. 

The  greatest  labor  for  their  master,  Man  ; 

Their  loftiest  deeds  content  him  as  they  can. 

The  few  solve  problems  for  the  many's  doubt ; 

The  many  bind  the  few  to  work  them  out. 

Best  thoughts  should  rule  in  kingdom  as  in  breast ; 

And  God's  compulsive  working  aids  the  best. 

'Tis  thus  we  keep  our  fragile  house  of  clay, 
Where,  let  some  slightest  pressure  fall  away, 
The  elemental  powers  make  entrance  straight, 
Rude  victors  now  where  they  were  slaves  but  late  ; 
Ravage  the  mould  and  hue  of  heavenly  art, 
Ev'n  to  the  sacred  chambers  of  the  heart, 
And  hold  their  revel  in  the  veiled  state 
Where  Life's  high  sacrament  was  consecrate. 
Skilled  to  divide,  as  beasts  to  wound  and  tear, 
Each  with  true  instinct  singles  out  his  share ; 


MY   LECTURE.  137 

Assimilative  Nature  claims  the  whole, 
And  flashes  back  to  God  th'  electric  soul. 

Here  end  we  seemingly — ■  if  one  would  look 

Into  our  Fate's  apocalyptic  book, 

Head  earnest  Wisdom  through  Hope's  orient  glow, 

And  construe  that  we  wish  by  that  we  know, 

Let  him  give  rapt  attendance  on  the  dream 

Of  One  *  who  builded  by  Earth's  master-scheme 

Xew  heavens,  building  out  of  soul,  not  sense, 

Not  for  the  vulgar  deed  and  recompense, 

But  judging  spirit-destinies  by  laws, 

Faultless  as  God,  of  tendency  and  cause ; 

If  spirits  live,  then  with  close  straining  eyes 

Probing  conviction  through  all  mysteries. 

To  have  and  hold  the  truth  that  underlies 

Man's  claim  of  life  transcending  life,  he  brings, 

From  deep  analogy  of  human  things, 

The  inner  marvel  he  had  thought  to  find, 

Th'  imperishable  features  of  the  mind  ; 

Discerns  a  subtler  current  in  the  vein, 

A  more  transparent  tissue  in  the  brain, 

Till  he  can  trace,  a  plan  within  a  plan, 

The  deep  inherence  of  th'  immortal  Man, 

*  Swedenborsr. 


138  MY    LECTURE. 

Maturing  from  the  coarser  element 

Until  God's,  holy  seal  of  life  be  rent, 

When  the  rude  matrix  crumbles  from  the  ore, 

And  Soul  may  know  what  Sense  had  dreamed  before. 

Oh !  dream  of  ages,  promise  of  the  morn, 
Solace  of  patient  grief  and  tears  forborne  ; 
Oh !  sacred  right  of  hope  that  Nature  gave 
"When  Earth's  first  darling  fainted  to  the  grave ; 
By  thee  the  soul,  from  height  of  ecstasy, 
Projects  its  glory  on  Infinity. 
Thou  hast  thy  promise  in  all  things  that  are ; 
In  gifts  and  powers  for  life  too  full  and  far ; 
In  the  winged  Psyche  of  the  chrysalid, 
That  shows  the  angel  in  the  human  hid ; 
In  odors  and  delights  of  Eastern  skies, 
That  well  might  deepen  to  soul-paradise  ; 
But  though  all  else  may  bode  thee  and  reveal, 
Take  from  the  Christ  thy  sanction  and  thy  seal. 

His  incense-balm  of  being  and  of  breath 
Does  but  condense  and  concentrate  in  Death  ; 
His  holy  grace  of  Nature  still  survives 
All  mortal  doom,  to  quicken  holiest  lives. 
Unchanged  in  form  and  countenance  he  moves, 
Full  of  the  patience  of  his  human  loves  ; 


MY   LECTURE.  139 

Tempers  the  fervent,  animates  the  dull, 
Fosters  with  bosom-warmth  the  beautiful ; 
Upon  the  thoughtless,  soft  as  angel  wings, 
Lays  his  light  hand,  and  deeper  musing  brings  ; 
Stands  in  the  path  of  Sorrow,  till  erewhile 
She  must  look  up,  and  smile  him  back  his  smile. 
Earth's  martyrs,  rapturous,  seek  the  ways  he  trod  ; 
And  lonely  virgins,  loving  him,  love  God. 
Ev'n  this,  our  mighty  hope,  too  wide,  too  dim 
For  creed  or  dogma,  takes  its  shape  in  Him. 
(Thus  speaks  he  from  the  endless  morning  dew :) 
*  Behold  me  now,  even  as  I  walked  with  you. 
This  presence,  earnest,  truthful,  meek,  august, 
"Was  that  ye  loved,  not  that  ye  laid  in  dust. 
Doubt  not,  nor  faint  as  at  a  phantom  strange ; 
The  death  ye  see  is  but  the  spasm  of  change  — 
All  forms  are  shadows,  shadow-like  pass  by ; 
The  love  that  is  our  Being  cannot  die.' 


140 


TRIBUTE   TO   A   FAITHFUL   SERVANT. 


Oh  grief!  that  wring'st  mine  eyes  with  tears, 

Demand  not  from  my  lips  a  song ; 

That  fated  gift  of  early  years 

I've  loved  too  well,  I've  nursed  too  long. 


What  boot  my  verses  to  the  heart 
That  breath  of  mine  no  more  shall  stir  ? 
Where  were  the  Piety  of  Art, 
If  thou  wert  silent  over  her  ? 


This  was  a  maiden  light  of  foot, 
Whose  bloom  and  laughter,  fresh  and  free, 
Flitted  like  sunshine  in  and  out 
Among  my  little  ones  and  me. 


TRIBUTE.  141 

Hers  was  the  power  to  quell  and  charm, 
The  ready  wit  that  children  love  ; 
The  faithful  breast,  the  shielding  arm, 
Pillowed  in  sleep  my  tenderest  dove. 

She  played  in  all  the  nursery  plays  ; 
She  ruled  in  all  its  little  strife ; 
A  thousand  genial  ways  endeared 
Her  presence  to  ray  daily  life. 


She  ranged  my  hair  with  gem  or  flower ; 
Careful  the  festal  draperies  hung; 
Or  plied  her  needle,  hour  for  hour. 
In  cadence  with  the  song  I  sung. 


My  highest  joy  she  could  not  share, 
Nor  fathom  Sorrow's  deep  abyss ; 
For  that  she  wore  a  smiling  air  ; 
She  hung  her  head  and  pined  for  this. 

'  And  she  shall_Jive  with  me,'  I  said, 
1  Till  all  my  pretty  ones  be  grown  ; 
I'll  give  my  girls  my  little  maid. 
The  gayest  thing  I  call  my  own.' 


142  TRIBUTE. 

Or  else,  methought,  some  farmer  bold 
Should  woo  and  win  my  gentle  Lizzie, 
And  I  should  stock  her  house  fourfold, 
Be  with  her  wedding  blithely  busy. 


But  lo  !  Consumption's  spectral  form 
Sucks  from  her  lips  the  flickering  breath ; 
In  these  pale  flowers,  these  tear-drops  warm, 
I  brin<x  the  mournful  dower  of  Death. 


I  waited  on  the  dying  girl ; 
The  bitter  bloom  was  on  her  cheek  ; 
The  hollow  chorus  of  the  cough 
Followed  each  word  she  tried  to  speak. 

Her  eyes,  whose  soft  expression  grew 
Death-girdled  in  a  face  of  stone, 
What  torch-light  of  past  happiness 
Through  their  sepulchral  arches  shone  ! 


'  Have  I  abridged  thy  little  life,' 
Methought,  *  by  strength  too  sorely  tried  ?  ' 
The  lustrous  eyes  made  answer  straight, 
1  Hadst  thou  been  here,  I  had  not  died.' 


TRIBUTE.  143 

Not  often  to  the  parting  soul 
Does  Life  in  dreary  grimness  show  ; 
Earth's  captive,  leaving  prison-walls, 
Beholds  them  touched  with  sunset  ejlow. 


In  this  is  Nature  fain  to  he 
Beligion's  helpful  ministress ; 
Since,  whatsoe'er  one  bears,  'twere  good 
One  went  to  God  in  thankfulness. 


And  she  forgot  her  sleepless  nights, 
Her  weary  tasks  of  foot  and  hand, 
And,  soothed  with  thoughts  of  pleasantness, 
Lay  floating  towards  the  silent  land. 


The  talk  of  comfortable  hours, 
The  merry  dancing  tunes  I  played, 
Gay  banquets  with  the  children  shared, 
And  summer  days  in  greenwood  shade,  — 


They  lay  far  scattered  in  the  past, 
Through  the  dim  vista  of  disease  ; 
But  when  I  spake,  and  held  her  hand, 
The  parting  cloud  showed  things  like  these. 


144  TKIBUTE. 

I  questioned  not  her  peace  with  God, 
Nor  pried  into  her  guiltless  mind, 
Like  those  unskilful  surgeon-priests 
Who  rack  the  soul  with  probings  blind  ; 
(Too  well  her  brow's  clear  dial  showed 
The  workings  of  the  thought  behind.) 

For  I've  seen  men  who  meant  not  ill 
Compelling  doctrine  out  of  Death, 
With  Hell  and  Heaven  acutely  poised 
Upon  the  turning  of  a  breath  ; 

While  agonizing  judgments  hung 
Ev'n  on  the  Saviour's  helpful  name  ; 
As  mild  Madonna's  form,  of  old, 
A  hideous  torture-tool  became. 

I  could  but  say,  with  faltering  voice 
And  eyes  that  glanced  aside  to  weep, 
6  Be  strong  in  faith  and  hope,  my  child ; 
He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep. 

1  And  though  thou  walk  the  shadowy  vale 
Whose  end  we  know  not,  He  will  aid ; 
His  rod  and  staff  shall  stay  thy  steps  :' 
*  I  know  it  well,'  she  smiled  and  said. 


TRIBUTE.  145 


She  knew  it  well,  and  knew  yet  more 
My  deepest  hope,  though  unexprest, 
The  hope  that  God's  appointed  sleep 
But  heightens  ravishment  with  rest. 


My  children,  living  flowers,  shall  come 
And  strew  with  seed  this  grave  of  thine. 
And  bid  the  blushing  growths  of  Spring 
Thy  dreary  painted  cross  entwine. 


Thus  Faith,  east  out  of  barren  creeds, 
Shall  rest  in  emblems  of  her  own ; 
Beauty  still  springing  from  Decay, 
The  cross-wood  budding  to  the  crown. 
10 


146 


THE   JOY   OF   POESY. 


Voices  of  care  and  pleasure,  cease ! 
Harp  !  thou  and  I  have  room  at  length  ; 
Incline  thy  sweetness  to  my  skill, 
And  give  back  melody  for  strength. 

Oh !  not  amiss  the  Master  Bard 
Is  pictured  to  the  vulgar  mind 
Possessed  of  inner  sight  alone  ; 
The  poet  at  his  song  is  blind. 

He  sees  nor  circumstance,  nor  friend  ; 
His  listeners  press  not  in  on  him  ; 
Cloud-rapt  in  possibility, 
His  thoughts  and  ways  are  far  and  dim. 


THE    JOT    OF    TOESY.  147 

Led  by  the  wonder  of  his  theme, 

He  writes  his  word  in  doubt  and  shade; 

Its  glory  scarcely  shows  to  him  — 

Do  stars  look  bright  to  God  that  made  ? 


He  leaves,  and  follows  on  for  more, 

By  winged  steed  or  Stygian  boat ; 

Men  see  the  letters  all  in  light, 

And  bless  the  unconscious  hand  that  wrote. 


For  sure  among  all  arts  is  none 
So  far  transcending  sense  as  this, 
That  follows  its  own  painful  way, 
And  cannot  rest  in  bane  or  bliss ; 


That  moulds  to  more  than  face  or  form, 
That  paints  to  more  than  Nature's  hue, 
And  from  th'  intense  of  passion  brings 
The  deeply,  passionlessly  true ; 


That,  in  unlettered  ages,  read 
The  thoughts  that  in  God's  heavens  are  ; 
Divined  the  Orient  speech  of  Day, 
And  told  the  tale  of  star  to  star. 


148  THE    JOY    OF    TOESY. 

Oh  !  tremblingly  I  sit  to  sing, 
And  take  the  lyre  upon  my  knee  ; 
Like  child  divine  to  mortal  maid, 
My  gift  is  full  of  awe  to  me. 

To  sing  for  praise,  to  sing  for  gold, 

Or  ev'n  for  mere  delight  of  singing, 

Were  as  if  empty  joy  of  smell 

Should  prompt  the  censer's  fragrant  swinging. 

Dear  Soul  of  bliss,  and  bliss  of  song, 
Be  thou  and  song  insphered  with  me ; 
Thus  may  I  hold  the  sacred  gift, 
Possessing,  but  possest  in  thee» 


119 


STANZAS. 


Of  the  heaven  is  generation ; 

Fruition  in  the  deep  earth  lies  ; 

And  where  the  twain  have  broadest  blending, 

The  stateliest  growths  of  life  arise. 


Set,  then,  thy  root  in  earth  more  firmly ; 
Raise  thy  fair  head  erect  and  free ; 
And  spread  thy  loving  arms  so  widely, 
That  heaven  and  earth  shall  meet  in  thee. 


150 


THE   DEAD   CHRIST. 


Take  the  dead  Christ  to  my  chamber, 

The  Christ  I  brought  from  Rome ; 
Over  all  the  tossing  ocean, 

He  has  reached  his  Western  home : 
Bear  him  as  in  procession, 

And  lay  him  solemnly 
Where,  through  weary  night  and  morning, 

He  shall  bear  me  company. 

The  name  I  bear  is  other 

Than  that  I  bore  by  birth  ; 
And  I've  given  life  to  children 

Who'll  grow  and  dwell  on  earth ; 
But  the  time  comes  swiftly  towards  me, 

(Nor  do  I  bid  it  stay,) 
When  the  dead  Christ  will  be  more  to  me 

Than  all  I  hold  to-day. 


THE    DEAD    CHRIST.  151 

Lay  the  dead  Christ  beside  me  ; 

Oh,  press  him  on  my  heart ; 
I  would  hold  him  long  and  painfully, 

Till  the  weary  tears  should  start ; 
Till  the  divine  contagion 

Heal  me  of  self  and  sin, 
And  the  cold  weight  press  wholly  down 

The  pulse  that  chokes  within. 

Reproof  and  frost,  they  fret  me  ; 

Towards  the  free,  the  sunny  lands, 
From  the  chaos  of  existence 

I  stretch  these  feeble  hands  ; 
And,  penitential,  kneeling, 

Pray  God  would  not  be  wroth, 
Who  gave  not  the  strength  of  feeling 

And  strength  of  labor  both. 

Thou'rt  but  a  wooden  carving, 

Defaced  of  worms,  and  old ; 
Yet  more  to  me  thou  couldst  not  be 

"Wert  thou  all  wrapt  in  gold  ; 
Like  the  gem-bedizened  baby 

Which,  at  the  Twelfth-day  noon, 
They  show  from  the  Ara  Cadi's  steps 

To  a  merry  dancing  tune. 


152  THE    DEAD    CHRIST. 

I  ask  of  thee  no  wonders, 

Xo  changing  white  or  red  ; 
I  dream  not  thou  art  living  ; 

I  love  and  prize  thee  dead. 
•  That  salutary  deadness 

I  seek  through  want  and  pain, 
From  which  God's  own  high  power  can  bid 

Oar  virtue  rise  again. 


153 


MIDNIGHT. 


I  love  to  walk  the  darkness 
On  the  Midnight's  folded  arm, 
Between  Earth's  struggling  currents 
And  Heaven's  blue  depths  of  calm, 


And  prove  the  ghostly  terrors, 
Which,  all  too  wild  for  sight, 
Throng  on  the  teeming  fancy 
At  the  solemn  noon  of  nijrht ; 


And  mark  the  mocking  contrast 
Of  the  gentle  and  the  loud, 
When  all  the  powers  of  being 
To  height  and  crisis  crowd. 


154  MIDNIGHT. 

The  saint  that,  on  the  housetop, 
Tells  by  the  stars  his  prayer, 
Hears  the  rude  Bacchanalian 
Profane  the  slumb'rous  air. 


The  golden  hymn  of  silence 
Pauses  for  his  amen  ; 
But  lo  !  his  lips  are  palsied 
By  some  Erotic  strain. 


For  midnight  lends  a  passion 

To  all  of  soul  and  sense ; 

The  wine-cup  grows  more  maddening, 

The  music  more  intense. 


Then  swifter  whirl  the  dancers, 
And  wilder  plays  the  band ; 
More  ruthless  throws  the  gamester 
Perdition  from  his  hand. 


The  thief  has  bolder  daring 
To  force  through  bolt  and  bar ; 
The  man  of  blood  more  lightly 
Follows  his  crimson  star. 


MIDXIGIIT.  155 


The  wanton's  haggard  features 
Glow  then  through  all  their  paint ; 
And  paler,  in  his  rapture, 
Turns  the  transfigured  saint. 


Friends  who  await  the  hour, 
In  memoiy  of  the  dead, 
Drink  then  the  pledge  of  sorrow, 
And  break  the  solemn  bread ; 


While  the  maiden,  from  her  lattice, 

More  timidly  doth  move  ; 

Oh  !  terrible  is  Midnight 

With  the  thought  of  one  we  love. 


Upon  my  brow  and  bosom 
Let  holy  lilies  lie, 
By  the  child  Jesus  gathered 
In  radiant  infancy ; 

Then,  when  the  midnight  fever 
Rushes  through  heart  and  brain, 
I  hold  them  here,  I  press  them  there, 
And  God  is  felt  again. 


156 


THE    FELLOW  PILGRIM. 


When  I  read  o'er  the  lines  I  traced 
When  thou  and  I  together  were, 
My  wandering  thoughts  restrain  their  haste  ; 
The  power  of  thy  mind  is  there  ; 


The  mind  that  laid  its  grasp  on  me, 
A  friendly  grasp,  but  firm  and  strong, 
First  from  my  errors  shook  me  free, 
Then  led  me,  brother-like,  along, 


'Mid  lovely  sights  and  holy  sounds, 
And  landscapes  smiling  green  and  fair, 
To  thought  and  duty's  noblest  bounds, 
And  heart's  delights,  refined  and  rare. 


THE    FELLOW   PILGRIM.  157 

Beside  thee,  in  the  solemn  aisle 
The  anthem's  swelling  notes  I  heard  ; 
There  seemed  a  glory  in  thy  smile, 
A  lesson  in  thy  lightest  word. 


The  mighty  cadence  shook  my  heart 
Like  a  frail  pennon  in  the  gale ; 
And  while  I  wept  and  prayed  apart, 
Thy  cheek  with  strange  delight  grew  pale. 


At  tombs  of  poets  and  of  kings 
The  pilgrim's  pious  debt  I  paid  ; 
Oft  as  my  mint  soul  spread  its  wings, 
Thy  manlier  thought  did  give  it  aid. 


Thou  knew'st  not  then  how  sick  a  heart 
Essayed  the  measure  of  thine  own, 
Nor  how  thy  probings  made  it  smart 
With  sorrow  to  the  world  unknown. 


Be  blest  of  God,  and  so  farewell ! 
Southward  the  bird  of  exile  flies, 
But  in  her  bosom  bears  a  spell 
That  changes  not  with  changing  skies. 


158 


BROTHERHOOD. 


I'll  call  thee  Brother  of  my  soul, 
And  dream  the  mother-planet  mild 
That  shone  upon  thy  manhood's  dawn 
Upon  my  cheerless  childhood  smiled. 

As  oft  as  thou  dost  speak  of  her 
With  such  a  fond  and  duteous  love, 
'  Thus  might  my  son  remember  me  ! ' 
I  ask  of  Him  who  reigns  above. 


But  out  of  Chaos  half-matured, 
In  me  Life's  saddest  discords  blend  ; 
I  am  God's  orphan  and  the  world's  ; 
Even  thou  shalt  scarcely  rest  my  friend. 


BROTHERHOOD.  159 

And  yet  thou  art  so  large  of  heart, 
So  free  of  generous  sympathy, 
That  sometimes  by  thy  passing  breath 
A  drooping  flower  revived  may  be. 


160 


THE    DEATH  OF   THE    SLAVE   LEWIS. 


In  the  deep  sanctuary  of  sheltering  night, 
Kept  by  the  angels  of  the  stars  serene, 
The  meanest  hireling  holds  his  vested  right  — 
Mourner,  slave,  culprit,  lose  from  thought  and  sight 
The  weight  of  grief  that  shall  be,  or  hath  been. 


"Within  its  walls  young  lovers  tune  their  strings, 
And  ravished  saints  breathe  adoration  deep ; 
But  softly  prayer  and  song  unfold  their  wings, 
Lest  ev'n  the  full  heart's  upward  murmurings 
Too  rudely  cross  the  silver  spell  of  sleep. 


From  out  that  holy  realm  of  night  a  shriek, 

As  of  a  soul  in  Hades,  rent  the  veil 
Of  silence  —  then  a  prophet  seemed  to  speak, 
To  anger  roused  —  not '  Turn  the  unsmitten  cheek/ 

But,  <  Blood  for  blood  ! '  answered  the  dismal  wail. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  SLAVE  LEWIS.      161 

And  then  I  heard  a  piteous  creature  lift 

His  agonizing  pleadings  where  he  stood 
Bound,  naked,  marked  with  many  a  bloody  rift, 
While  blows  urged  out,  in  torture  cries,  his  shrift 
To  one  with  drunken  fury  in  his  blood. 


The  brute  but  flogged  the  harder  for  his  cry  ; 

It  gave  the  horrid  sport  a  keener  zest : 
It  is  appointed  once  for  man  to  die  ; 
But  what  the  crime,  the  agony,  say  I, 

When  twenty  murders  tear  one  bleeding  breast  ? 

1  They  beat  him  with  a  broad,  flat  thong '  —  'tis  urged  — 

1  For  all  security  of  life  and  limb.' 
Brethren,  was  He,  by  whom  men's  sins  are  purged, 
Ev'n  thus  with  a  broad  leather  merely  scourged, 

Why  waste  our  womanish  hearts  their  throbs  on  him  ? 

Blows  rained  upon  him  till  his  yielding  brain 

Had  fashioned  out  the  tale  they  wished  to  learn 
In  dreadful  inspiration  of  his  pain  — 
They  left  him,  gibbet-wise,  within  his  chain, 
To  scourge  a  brother  victim,  and  return. 
11 


162      THE  DEATH  OF  THE  SLAVE  LEWIS. 

They  set  a  man  to  watch  him,  they  aver, 
Who,  as  men  will,  forsook  his  misery ; 
But  while  he  staid,  unless  his  statement  err, 
Not  rest  nor  healing  craved  the  sufferer ; 
But,  i  Can  you  lend  me  any  help  to  die  ? ' 

Blind  Nature  has  an  instinct  to  be  free  ; 

Despair  is  mighty,  though  her  hands  be  tied ; 
Howe'er  he  bowed  his  head  and  bent  the  knee, 
(The  action  has  a  dark  sublimity,) 

The  black  man  gathered  up  his  strength,  and  died. 

They  left  thee,  Lewis,  with  thy  wounds  all  warm ; 

But  when  they  came  to  heap  thy  measure  o'er, 
Free  in  the  fetters  hung  thy  passive  form. 
Oh  !  theirs  the  crime,  if  in  hate's  wildest  storm 

Thy  soul,  unbidden,  sought  th'  eternal  shore. 

Priests  tell  us  of  the  guilt  of  suicide  — 

Let  the  word  pause  upon  the  untried  tongue ! 
They  stormed  life's  citadel,  ill-fortified, 
Till  the  vexed  soul  fled,  powerless  to  abide, 
And  Death's  pale  flag  of  truce  aloft  was  flung. 


THE    DEATII    OF    THE    SLAVE    LEWIS.  163 

Death  was  thy  champion  :  'neath  his  icy  shield 
Thy  rescued  body  laughed  the  whip  to  scorn ; 

While  by  those  wound-mouths,  never  to  be  sealed, 

Thy  soul  unto  the  Ever  Just  appealed, 

Cried  out  to  God,  <  Remember  what  I've  borne  ! ' 


Where  stays  avenging  Justice  ?     Why  compel 

Our  hearts  to  seek  her  in  th'  abyss  below  ? 
Shuddering,  our  eyes  look  downwards  for  a  hell, 
Since  Judge  and  Jury's  fiat  flatly  fell : 

1  A  slave  the  victim  ?     Let  the  white  man  go  ! ' 


It  is  no  murder  when  unsanctioned  force 

Wastes  a  poor  negro's  life  beneath  the  thong 
In  your  brave  South.     Where  freer  law  has  course, 
A  man  who  toys  too  rudely  with  his  horse 
Is  held  a  culprit,  and  acquits  the  wrong. 

But  there  must  be  a  hell,  as  thou  shalt  know 
By  all  its  furies  loosed  within  thy  breast. 

Remorse  shall  feed  on  thee  his  hunger  slow ; 

Or,  art  thou  for  her  craving  sunk  too  low, 

Spectres  of  fear  shall  scare  thee  from  thy  rest. 


164      THE  DEATH  OF  THE  SLATE  LEWIS. 

The  curse  of  Cain  shall  hunt  thy  wandering  thought 
To  frantic  haste,  to  fainting  weariness. 

Lookest  thou  earthward,  blood  is  there  unsought ; 

Skyward,  the  clouds  th'  avenging  hue  have  caught, 
And  mock,  like  crimson  monsters,  thy  distress. 

Scourging  for  scourging,  but  in  keener  kind  ; 

And  death  for  death,  but  in  a  living  grave  ; 
While,  from  th'  uneasy  torment  of  thy  mind, 
Thou  shalt  behold  and  envy,  peace  enshrined, 

The  placid  phantom  of  thy  murdered  slave. 

Ev'n  though  thou  babble  from  the  mystic  book, 

And  taste  the  sacred  symbols  of  thy  creed, 
Let  Christ's  black  brother  from  the  altar  look, 
Faint,  falter,  'neath  his  withering  rebuke  — 
The  heavenly  food  can  poison,  too,  at  need. 


I  pause,  unwilling  further  to  rehearse 

Thy  meeds,  or  shut  thee  from  God's  clemency ; 
Rather  I'll  weep,  and  wish  thee  nothing  worse 
Than  that,  returning  blessing  for  thy  curse, 

Thy  victim's  soul  may  plead  with  God  for  thee. 


165 


ASHES   OF   ROSES. 


'Tis  noon  —  the  little  shepherdess  doth  watch  her  flock 

at  play, 
And    thanks  the  gladsome  summer    for  its   best    and 

brightest  day  ; 
From  time  to  time  her  happy  thoughts  in  simple  song 

she  weaves, 
And  twines  from  out  her  tiny  hands  her  garland  of 

green  leaves. 


How  green  the  grass  is  growing !  and  the  flowers,  how 

bright  they  bloom  ! 
The  stream  shall  be  my  looking-glass  —  the  dell  my 

tiring-room  ; 
And  yon,  amid  the  mountains,  where  my  eye  cannot 

see, 
Oh !  is  there  not  a  winsome  youth  who  kindly  thinks 

of  me  ? 


166  ASHES    OF   ROSES. 

And  now,  across  the  noontide  sky,  a  cloud  its  shadow 

flings  ; 
Still,  in  the  gladness  of  her  heart,  the  little  maiden 

sings 
A  song  of  plaintive  melody  —  a  song  of  olden  time  — 
While  softly  to  her  voice  keeps  tune  the  distant  village 

chime. 


But  sudden  from  the  dark,  thick  cloud,  the  tempest's 

might  hath  rushed ; 
Leaps  the  wild  lightning,  and  the  song  upon  her  lips  is 

hushed ; 
She  throws  back  her  bright  tresses,  for  the  air  is  close 

and  warm, 
And  looks  with  quiet  rapture  on  the  glory  of  the  storm. 


Then,  from  the  darkness  of  the  skies,  a  voice  of  terror 

spake, 
And  to  its  fearful  message  bade  the  mountain  echoes 

wake  — 
Another  and  a   louder  crash,  more  fearful  than  the 

rest ! 
The  maiden  bent  her  head,  and  clasped  her  hands  upon 

her  breast. 


ASHES    OF    KOSES.  167 

Another !  and  slie  raised  the  lustrous  beauty  of  her 
eje, 

And  its  steadfast  look  said,  '  Father !  I  do  not  fear  to 
die!' 

Another !  and  -with  gentlest  sigh,  with  softest  sigh  of 
prayer, 

The  child  had  breathed  her  happy  soul  upon  the  sum- 
mer air ! 


And  from  the  mountain's  ragged  breast  there  burst  a 

CO 

wailing  wild ; 
They  sang  their  own  rude  lullaby,  and  sorrowed  o'er 

their  child ; 
But  deep  from  out  their  strong-holds  a  sadder  voice 

shall  come, 
When  the  sweet  blighted  flower  is  borne  unto  her  silent 

home. 


The  anger  of  the  storm  is  spent  —  'tis  sunshine  on  the 

plain  ; 
It   plays  around  the  form  of  her  it   may  not  warm 

again  ; 
And  what,  of  all  it  looks  upon,  hath  such  a  tender 

grace 
As  that  fair  head,  laid  low  for  aye,  and  that  sweet, 

upturned  face? 


168 


ASHES    OF   ROSES. 


Sweet  Marian!  the  flowers  shall  mourn  the  playmate 

of  their  love  ; 
The  trees'  shall  miss  thy  music,  and  the  singers  of  the 

grove  ; 
Thy    parents  weep    as   parents  weep ;   and   from  one 

heart,  this  day, 
With    its    unlooked-for    bitterness,    shall    never    pass 

away. 


In  mute  surprise    and  wonderment  thy  flock   around 

thee  stand  ; 
They  miss  the  cheering  of  thy  voice,  the  guiding  of 

thy  hand  ; 
While  thou  art  hid  within  the  arms,  and  shielded  on  the 

breast, 
Of  Him  who  leads  his  tender  lambs  in  the  green  fields 

of  rest. 


Yet  surely  should  the  parent's  voice  be  welcome  to  the 

child, 
Whether  it   come   at   noon  or   night,   in   gentle  tones 

or  wild  ; 
And  I,  Oh  Father !  when  Thy  will  shall  call  my  soul 

away, 
May  I  as  calmly  hear  Thy  word,  as  placidly  obey  ! 


169 


HANDSOME   HARRY. 


"Why  must  we  look  so  oft  abaft? 
What  is  the  charm  we  feel 
When  handsome  Harry  guides  the  craft, 
His  hand  upon  the  wheel  ? 

His  hand  upon  the  wheel,  his  eye 
The  swelling  sail  doth  measure : 
Were  I  the  vessel  he  commands, 
I  should  obey  with  pleasure. 


Whether  he  tumbles  to  the  top, 
Or  in  the  rigging  stands, 
I  must  admire  his  agile  feet,      { 
His  ready,  willing  hands. 


170  HANDSOME    HARRY. 

He  would  seem  taller,  were  he  not 
In  such  proportion  made ; 
He  wears  as  fair  and  free  a  brow 
As  golden  curls  can  shade. 


Fresh  youth,  and  joyance,  and  kind  heart 
Gleam  in  his  azure  eye ; 
And  though  I  scarcely  know  his  voice, 
I  think  he  cannot  lie. 


More  graceful  is  his  shirt  of  blue 
Than  your  best  Paris  coat ; 
It  drapes  his  manly  shoulders  well, 
Displays  his  rounded  throat. 

He  seems  a  glowing  Mercury 
Just  lighted  from  the  sun  ; 
But  Harry  stands  on  two  trim  feet, 
And  Mercury  on  one. 


From  boyhood's  days,  the  ocean  wave 
Has  cradled  him  to  sleep  ; 
He  is  a  true  salt-water  babe, 
An  orphan  of  the  deep. 


HANDSOME    HARRY.  171 

And  he  can  win  a  maiden's  ear, 
They  say,  with  ready  art ; 
But  who  would  trust  to  sailors'  vows, 
True  pirates  of  the  heart  ? 


Yet,  when  I  see  him  at  the  helm 
With  heaven  about  his  eyes, 
I  think  he's  fit  to  guide  our  ship 
To  nought  but  Paradise. 


172 


THE    MASTER. 


Sometimes,  in  the  brilliant  strife 

Of  the  wise  and  witty, 
One  who  pleads  not  for  himself 

Breathes  divinest  pity. 

Sometimes,  where  fierce  speakers  hurl 

Loud  denunciation, 
One  clear  whisper  calms  men's  hearts 

To  appreciation. 

Where  the  high-tuned  viols  meet 
In  most  rapturous  swelling, 

Passes  one  who  holds  the  thought 
Mystic  strains  were  telling. 


THE    MASTER.  173 

'Mid  the  bus)'  haunts  of  men, 

'Mid  their  festal  dances, 
Where  the  eye  betrays  no  heart 

Deeper  than  its  glances. 


I  have  seen  a  broader  brow, 
More  serene  and  higher, 

Eyes  wherein  an  after-thought 
Chastens  native  fire. 


I,  who  bow  not  to  the  priest 
Lean,  or  fed  to  sleekness, 

Bend  to  one  who  holds  of  Christ 
Wisdom,  love,  and  meekness. 

When  his  intercession  mild 
Hushed  the  critic's  paean, 

He  had  caught  a  gentle  tone 
From  the  Galikean. 


When  his  words  of  higher  faith 
Shamed  the  Calvinistian, 

He,  were  he  baptized  or  not, 
Answered  like  a  Christian. 


174  THE    MASTER. 

When  his  eye  detected  me 
In  the  world's  vain  glitter, 

And  his  look  said :  '  Here  is  one 
Whose  garments  do  not  fit  her  ; 


'  She  who  stakes  an  hour  on  cards 
Risks  a  holier  treasure  ; 

She  who  scatters  shining  words 
Gathers  pain  for  pleasure  ; ' 


Then  my  world-enfrozen  heart 
Faster  beat,  and  faster ; 

As  I  looked  upon  the  Man, 
I  beheld  the  Master. 


175 


MORTAL   AND  IMMORTAL. 


Oh  !  life  is  strange,  and  fall  of  change, 
But  it  brings  me  little  sorrow ; 

For  I  came  to  the  world  but  yesterday, 
And  I  shall  20  hence  to-morrow. 


The  wind  is  drear,  the  leaves  are  sear, 

Full  dimly  shows  the  sun, 
The  skies  are  bright,  the  earth  is  light ; 

To  me  'tis  almost  one. 


The  sunny  rill,  the  wave  dark  and  chill, 
Across  my  breast  may  roll ; 

The  saddest  sigh,  the  merriest  cry, 
Make  music  in  my  soul. 


176  MORTAL    AND    IMMORTAL. 

A  few  short  years  of  smiles  and  tears, 

Of  suffering  not  in  vain, 
And  the  weary  smart  of  a  wounded  heart 

I  never  shall  know  again. 

I've  wept  for  the  bride  at  her  husband's  side ; 

I've  smiled  on  the  loved  one's  bier  ; 
For  a  mystery  was  shown  to  me, 

A  thing  of  hope  and  fear. 

Who  sows  in  tears  his  early  years 

May  bind  the  golden  sheaves  ; 
Who  scatters  flowers  in  summer  bowers 

Shall  reap  but  their  withered  leaves. 

A  wayward  child,  on  whom  hath  smiled 

The  light  of  heavenly  love ; 
A  pilgrim  with  a  vision  dim 

Of  something  far  above  ; 


I  live  for  all  who  on  me  call, 

And  yet  I  live  for  one  ; 
My  song  must  be  sweet  to  all  I  meet, 

And  yet  I  sing  to  none. 


MORTAL    AND    IMMORTAL.  177 

A  quiet  tone,  that  maketh  known 

A  spirit  passing  by, 
A  breath  of  prayer  on  the  midnight  air, 

And  I  am  gone  for  aye  ; 


Gone  to  the  rest  of  the  ever  blest, 

To  the  new  Jerusalem, 
"Where  the  children  of  light  do  walk  in  white, 

And  the  Saviour  leadeth  them. 


Forever  gone,  and  none  to  mourn  ; 

And  who  for  me  would  sorrow  ? 
I  came  to  toil  in  a  desert  soil, 

And  my  task  will  be  done  to-morrow. 
12 


178 


WHAT   I   SAID  TO   THE   DYING   ROSE,   AND 
WHAT    SHE    SAID   TO   ME. 


Sweet  Rose,  it  is  thy  dying  day  S 
Ere  nightfall  thou  must  pass  away, 

And  my  soul  for  thee  grieves  ; 
For  I  have  found  a  record  dear, 
Traced  by  the  hand  I  love  and  fear, 

Upon  thy  silken  leaves. 


Thou  hast  so  smiled  upon  my  heart, 
That  I  can  scarcely  from  thee  part 

Without  a  tear  of  sorrow ; 
For  I  shall  come  thy  cup  to  kiss, 
And  my  beloved  companion  miss, 

Forever  gone,  to-morrow. 


It  seemed  to  me  thy  lingering 
Made  Autumn  lovelier  than  Spring, 
With  a  sad  loveliness  ; 


THE    DYING   ROSE.  179 

On  thy  pale  leaves  a  golden  glow 
Spake  of  the  sunlight  on  the  snow, 
Of  joy  in  bitterness. 


Thy  little  hour  of  beauty's  o'er, 
And  I,  like  thee,  shall  be  no  more 

Ere  many  days  are  numbered  ; 
But  I  shall  rise  to  regions  blest, 
And  so  will  all  who  on  the  breast 

Of  holy  faith  have  slumbered. 

Is  there  another  life  for  thee, 
That  thou  so  uncomplainingly 

Dost  languish  unto  death  ? 
Oh,  tell  me,  does  an  unseen  Hand 
Bear  to  the  bright  and  better  land 

Thy  tender  parting  breath  ? 

Thy  fragrance  dropped  from  angels'  wings ; 
Thy  beauty  from  the  same  source  springs 

"With  all  I  love  and  cherish ; 
The  hills,  the  plains,  the  stars,  the  sun, 
The  fair  forms  I  have  looked  upon, 

That  change,  but  cannot  perish. 


180  THE    DYING    KOSE. 

Dost  thou  not  eloquently  look 
A  promise  from  the  mighty  book 

Writ  in  immensity  ? 
Thought  of  the  universal  Soul, 
Thyself  a  fragment  and  a  whole, 

A  truth,  a  mystery  ? 

The  dead  shall  rise,  the  heavens  shall  burn, 
The  earth  be  melted,  yet  return 

A  new  and  glorious  birth  : 
Oh,  say  that  thou  wilt  live  again, 
And  I,  methinks,  with  less  of  pain, 

Shall  see  thee  fall  to  earth. 

Speak  from  thy  softly-rounded  bell, 
"Whereon,  as  though  a  pearly  shell, 

The  morning  light  still  gloweth ; 
And  as  the  fair  leaves  dropped  away, 
Methought  that  each  did  seem  to  say, 

'  I  cannot  tell  —  God  knoweth.' 

Methinks  that  there  should  be  no  death  ; 
For  all  that  liveth  hath  the  breath 

Of  One  who  cannot  die  ; 
The  robes  of  glory  He  hath  worn 
Are  never  thrown  aside  in  scorn, 

But  lovingly  laid  by. 


THE    DYING    ROSE.  L81 

All  that  the  future  darkly  holds, 
All  the  sepulchral  past  unfolds, 

All  that  this  hour  must  be  ; 
The  soul  that  seeks  in  Him  its  sun, 
The  flower  whose  little  race  is  run, 
All  things  that  He  hath  made,  are  one 

With  His  eternity. 

Methinks  we  will  not  mourn  again, 
Nor  murmur,  while  life's  varied  chain 

Our  Father's  glory  showeth  ; 
The  blessedness  that  we  have  known, 
The  tears  that  we  have  wept  alone, 
Gather  like  incense  round  the  throne 

Of  Him  who  all  things  knoweth. 

And  Thou,  my  widowed  bridal  Rose, 
Whose  pallid  leaves  the  wound  disclose 

From  which  thy  heart's  blood  floweth, 
Thou  asketh  why  the  grave  doth  hide 
The  form  that  was  thy  life,  thy  pride, 
Why  thou  should'st  be  so  sorely  tried  : 

'  I  cannot  tell  —  God  knoweth.' 


182 


VISIONS. 


I  have  read  in  old  narrations 
How  the  Godhood  came  to  men ; 
Led  in  war  the  ancient  nations, 
Taught  the  arts  of  peace  and  gain. 


Now  a  virgin,  helmet  shielded, 
Points  from  clouds  her  warrior  spear ; 
Now  the  torch,  by  Ceres  wielded, 
Sheds  the  blessing  of  the  year. 


Now,  amid  Olympian  thunders, 
Jove's  portentous  bolts  are  hurled ; 
Vulcan  works  his  dingy  wonders  ; 
Cypris'  smHe  enslaves  the  world. 


yisioxs.  183 


Dearer  visions  show  the  gesture 
Of  a  God  who  deigns  to  hide 
Traits  divine  in  homely  vesture 
At  the  peasant's  fireside  ; 


Fathoms  secrets  without  asking, 
Sees  the  thought  confessed  to  none  ; 
Heavenly  largesse  ends  his  masking, 
Men  discern  him  when  he's  gone. 


Sometimes  when  alone  I  ponder 
On  that  outlet  of  the  soul, 
Hid  in  Northern  night  and  wonder, 
Armed  with  sunken  reef  and  shoal ; 


Fear  lest  evil  should  betide  me 
On  that  wide  and  viewless  sea, 
Lest  some  flattering  light  misguide  me, 
That  I  perish  utterly  ; 


Gentlest  harmony  breathes  o'er  me, 
Bringing  answer  to  my  prayer  ; 
Through  the  eyelids  closed  before  me, 
Shadowed,  the  Divine  is  there. 


184  visions. 

In  the  guise  of  human  natures, 
Folded  round  his  deep  heart  now, 
Manhood  gracious  in  his  features, 
Godhood  glorious  on  his  brow. 


Still  he  sits  beside  the  embers, 
Fills  serene  the  ancient  chair, 
Which  my  orphaned  heart  remembers 
Silvered  by  an  old  man's  hair. 


Hist!  the  household  all  is  sleeping  — 
Fm  in  trances  deeper  far, 
'  Didst  thou  hear  my  distant  weeping, 
Cristo,  che  son  misera  ?  ' 


'  By  these  eyes'  unbidden  filling, 
By  this  love  that  passeth  fear, 
By  this  silence,  soul-enthrilling, 
I  discerned  that  thou  wert  near ; 


'  Felt  the  holy  grace  and  goodness 
That  vouchsafed  thee  to  my  sight, 
Quieting  Life's  rush  and  rudeness 
With  a  calm  and  pure  delight. 


visions.  185 

'  Bless  me  with  those  hands  that  scattered 
Fulness  to  the  fainting  crowd  ; 
Speak,  as  from  the  bark,  storm-shattered, 
To  the  demon  of  the  cloud. 


1  Xay,  my  Cristo,  help  me  only 
To  a  striving  after  good  ; 
Faints  my  heart  in  love  so  lonely, 
Fails  the  earnest,  hopeful  mood. 

'  Hold  in  check  these  nerves  so  frantic 
"When  the  current  counter  runs  ; 
Give  me  patience  with  each  antic 
Of  the  wild  and  thoughtless  ones. 


( If  Displeasure,  sourly  looking 
From  stern  eyelids,  wounds  my  pride, 
Let  me  hear  thy  mild  rebuking, 
And  the  pang  in  silence  hide. 


'  Clearer  vision,  joys  ecstatic, 
I  resign  for  humbler  state  ; 
But  let  Life  be  emblematic 
Of  the  soul's  immortal  fate.' 


186  visions. 

Oftener,  my  confession  sighing, 
Sobbing,  struggles  from  my  breast ; 
And  that  gentle  One,  replying, 
Calms  me  to  unearthly  rest. 

Dimly  though  my  soul  discerneth 
What  those  pure  lips  smile  or  say, 
With  a  glad  consent  she  turneth 
Where  the  raised  hand  points  the  way  ; 
Hopefully  the  pilgrim  learneth 
She  must  walk  to  meet  the  day. 


Then  Life  rises  to  entomb  me ; 
Waking,  I  am  all  alone  ; 
Half  I  feel  Christ  passes  from  me, 
Half  I  deem  he  is  not  gone. 


Boston,  135  Washington  Strekt- 
Jantary,  1854. 


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